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THE   LETTER   OF   CREDIT. 


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ROBERT  CARTER  AND  BROTHERS, 

NEW  YORK. 


THE 


LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 


BY   THE  AUTHOR   OF 

"THE  WIDE,   WIDE   WORLD.," 

v1 


....  "The  bewildering  masquerade  of  life, 

Where  strangers  walk  as  friends,  and  friends  as  strangers." 

LONGFELLOW. 


NEW    YORK: 
ROBERT   CARTER  AND   BROTHERS, 

530  BROADWAY. 
1882. 


Copyright,  1881, 
BY  ROBERT  CARTER  &  BROTHERS. 


CAMBRIDGE:  ".  JOHNLAND 

PRESS  OF  STEREOTYPE  FOUNDRY, 

AXD  SOX.  SUFFOLK   CO.,    N.   Y. 


NOTE. 

The  following  story,  like  its  predecessors,  "  The  End 
of  a  Coil"  "My  Desire"  and  "Diana,"  is  a  record  of 
facts.  For  the  characters  and  the  coloring,  of  course,  I 
am  responsible  j  but  the  turns  of  the  story,  even  in  detail, 
are  almost  all  utterly  true. 

S.   W. 

Martlaer's  Rock, 
Sept.  12,  1881. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP. 

I.  THE   LETTER          . 

II.  MOVING    .  . 

III.  JANE    STREET          . 

IV.  A   VISITER  .  . 

V.  PRIVATE   TUITION 

VI.  A    LEGACY  .  . 

VII.  MENTAL   PHILOSOPHY 

VIII.  STATEN    ISLAND  . 

IX.  FORT   WASHINGTON 

X.  L'    HOMME   PROPOSE  . 

XI.  MRS.    BUSBY 

xii.  MRS.  BUSBY'S  HOUSE 

XIII.  NOT   DRESSED 

XIV.  IN    SECLUSION  . 

XV.  MRS.    MOWBRAY     . 

XVI.  SCHOOL    .  .  . 

XVII.  BAGS  AND    BIBLES 

XVIII.  FLINT    AND    STEEL      . 

XIX.  A   NEW   DEPARTURE 

XX.  STOCKINGS  .  . 

XXI.  EDUCATION. 

XXII.  A   CHANGE  .  . 

XXIII.  TANFIELD     .  . 

XXIV.  THE    PURCELLS 


viii  CONTENTS. 

CHAP.  PAGE 

xxv.  ROTHA'S  REFUGE 540 

XXVL  ROTHA'S  WORK 559 

xxvii.  INQUIRIES 581 

XXVIII.  DISCOVERIES  ......  604 

XXIX  PERPLEXITIES .621 

XXX.  DOWN    HILL       .  .  .  .  .  .651 

XXXI.  DISCUSSIONS .671 

XXXII.  END    OF   SCHOOL   TERM        ....          703 


THE   LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE   LETTER. 

"  1\  /[OTHER,  I  wonder  how  people  do,  when  they 

1V1     are  going  to  write  a  book  ?  " 

"Do?"  repeated  her  mother. 

"  Yes.     I  wonder  how  they  begin." 

"I  suppose  they  have  something  to  tell;  and 
then  they  tell  it,"  said  simple  Mrs.  Carpenter. 

"No,  no,  but  I  mean  a  story." 

"  What  story  have  you  got  there?" 

The  mother  was  shelling  peas;  the  daughter,  a 
girl  of  twelve  years  old  perhaps,  was  sitting  on 
the  floor  at  her  feet,  with  an  octavo  volume  in  her 
lap.  The  floor  was  clean  enough  to  sit  upon; 
clean  enough  almost  to  eat  off;  it  was  the  floor  of 
the  kitchen  of  a  country  farmhouse. 

"This  is  the  'Talisman,'"  the  girl  answered  her 
mother's  question.  "0  mother,  when  I  am  old 
enough,  I  should  like  to  write  stories ! " 

"Why?" 

"I  should  think  it  would  be  so  nice.  Why, 
mother,  one  could  imagine  oneself  anything." 


10  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"Could  you?"  said  her  mother.  "I  never  im- 
agined myself  anything  but  what  I  was." 
"  Ah,  but  perhaps  you  and  I  are  different." 
Which  was  undoubtedly  the  fact,  as  any  stander 
by  might  have  seen  with  half  an  eye.  Good  types 
both  of  them,  too.  The  mother  fair,  delicate  fea- 
tured, with  sweet  womanly  eyes,  must  have  been 
exceedingly  pretty  in  her  young  days;  she  was 
pretty  now ;  but  the  face  shewed  traces  of  care  and 
was  worn  with  life-work.  While  she  talked  and 
now  and  then  looked  at  her  daughter,  her  fingers 
were  untiringly  busy  with  the  peas  and  peas  pods 
and  never  paused  for  a  minute.  The  girl  on  the 
floor  did  not  look  like  her  mother.  She  was  dark 
eyed  and  dark  haired ;  with  a  dark  complexion  too, 
which  at  present  was  not  fine;  and  the  eyes,  large 
and  handsome  eyes,  revealed  a  fire  and  intensity 
and  mobility  of  nature  which  was  very  diverse 
from  the  woman's  gentle  strength.  Mrs.  Carpenter 
might  be  intense  too,  after  her  fashion ;  but  it  was 
the  fashion  of  the  proverbial  still  waters  that 
run  deep.  And  I  do  not  mean  that  there  was 
any  shallowness  about  the  girl's  nature;  though 
assuredly  the  placidity  would  be  wanting. 

"I  wish  your  father  would  forbid  you  to  read 
stories,"  Mrs.  Carpenter  went  on. 
"Why,  mother?" 

"  I  don't  believe  they  are  good  for  you." 
"  But  what  harm  should  they  do  me  ?  " 
"  Life  is  not  a  story.     I  don't  want  you  to  think 
it  is." 


THE  LETTER.  11 

"  Why  shouldn't  it  be  ?  Perhaps  my  life  will  be 
a  story,  mother.  I  think — it  will,"  said  the  girl 
slowly.  "I  shouldn't  want  my  life  to  be  always 
like  this." 

"  Are  you  not  happy  ?  " 

"O  yes,  mother!  But  then,  by  and  by,  I 
should  like  to  be  a  princess,  or  to  have  adven- 
tures, and  see  things;  like  the  people  in  stories." 

"  You  will  never  be  a  princess,  my  child.  You 
are  a  poor  farmer's  daughter.  You  had  better 
make  up  your  mind  to  it,  and  try  to  be  the  best 
thing  you  can  in  the  circumstances." 

"  You  mean,  do  my  duty  and  shell  peas  ?  "  asked 
the  girl  somewhat  doubtfully,  looking  at  her  moth- 
er's fingers  and  the  quick  stripped  pea  pods  pass- 
ing through  them.  "Is  father  poor,  mother?" 

"Yes." 

"  He  has  a  good  farm,  he  says." 

"Yes,  but  it  is  encumbered — heavily."  And 
Mrs.  Carpenter  sighed.  Rotha  had  often  heard 
her  mother  sigh  so.  It  was  a  breath  with  a 
burden. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  'encumbered.' " 

"It  is  not  needful  you  should  know,  just  yet." 

"But  I  should  like  to  know,  mother.  Won't 
you  tell  me?" 

"  It  is  heavily  mortgaged.  And  that  you  do  not 
understand.  ^Never  mind.  He  has  a  great  deal 
of  money  to  pay  out  for  it  every  year — the  inter- 
est on  the  mortgages — and  that  keeps  us  poor." 

"  Why  must  he  pay  it  ?  " 


12  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"Because  the  farm  is  pledged  for  the  debt;  and 
if  the  interest,  this  yearly  money,  were  not  paid, 
the  farm  itself  would  go." 

"Go?     How?" 

"Be  sold.     For  the  money  due  on  it." 

There  was  silence  awhile,  during  which  only 
the  pea  pods  rustled  and  fell ;  then  the  girl  asked, 

"  What  should  we  do  then,  mother,  if  the  farm 
was  sold?" 

"I  do  not  know."    The  words  came  faint. 

"Does  it  trouble  you,  mother?" 

"It  need  not  trouble  you,  Kotha.  It  cannot 
happen  unless  the  Lord  will ;  and  that  is  enough. 
Now  you  may  carry  these  pea  pods  out  and  give 
them  to  the  pigs." 

"Mother,"  said  Eotha  as  she  slowly  rose  and 
laid  away  her  book,  "all  you  say  makes  me  wish 
more  than  ever  that  I  were  a  princess,  or  some- 
thing." 

"You  may  be  something"  said  Mrs.  Carpenter 
laughing  slightly,  but  with  a  very  sweet  merri- 
ment "Now  take  away  this  basket." 

Rotha  stooped  for  the  basket,  and  then  stood 
still,  looking  out  of  the  window.  Across  the  in- 
tervening piece  of  kitchen  garden,  rows  of  peas 
and  tufts  of  asparagus  greenery,  her  eye  went  to 
the  road,  where  a  buggy  had  just  stopped. 

"Maybe  something  is  going  to  happen  now," 
she  said.  "  Who  is  that,  mother  ?  There  is  some- 
body getting  out  of  a  wagon  and  tying  his  horse ; 
—now  he  is  coming  in.  It  is  'Siah  Barker,  mother." 


THE  LETTER.  13 

Mrs.  Carpenter  paused  to  look  out  of  the  win- 
dow, and  then  hastily  throwing  her  peas  into  the 
pot  of  boiling  water,  went  herself  to  the  door.  A 
young  countryman  met  her  there,  with  a  whip  in 
his  hand. 

"Mornin',  Mis'  Carpenter.  Kin  you  help  the 
distressed  ?  " 

"  What's  the  matter,  'Siah  ?  " 

"  Shot  if  I  know;  but  he's  took  pretty  bad." 

"Who,  pray?" 

"Wall,  I  skurce  can  tell  that.  He's  an  Eng- 
lisher — come  to  our  place  this  mornin'  and  axed 
fur  a  horse  and  wagon  to  carry  him  to  Rochester; 
and  he's  got  so  fur, — that's  two  miles  o'  the  way, — 
and  he  can't  go  no  furder,  I  guess.  He's  took 
powerful  bad." 

"Ill,  is  he?" 

"Says  so.     And  he  looks  it." 

"  Cannot  go  on  to  Rochester  ?  " 

"It's  fifteen  mile,  Mis'  Carpenter.  I  wouldn't 
like  to  be  the  man  to  drive  him.  He  can't  go  an- 
other foot,  he  says.  He  was  took  quite  sudden." 

"  Cannot  you  turn  about  and  carry  him  back  to 
Medwayville?  " 

"Now,  Mis'  Carpenter,  you're  a  Christian,  and  a 
soft-hearted  one,  we  all  know.  Can't  you  let  him 
come  in  and  rest  a  bit?  Mebbe  you  could  give 
him  sunthin'  that  would  set  him  up.  You  under- 
stand doctorin',  fust-rate." 

Mrs.  Carpenter  looked  grave,  considered. 

"Is  this  your  idea,  or  the  stranger's,  'Siah?" 


14  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"It's  his'n,  ef  it's  anybody's  in  partickler.  He 
told  me  to  set  him  down  some'eres,  for  he  couldn't 
hold  out  to  go  on  nohow ;  and  then  he  seed  this 
house,  and  he  made  me  stop.  He's  a  sick  man,  I 
tell  you." 

"What's  the  matter  with  him?" 

"  Wall,  it's  sunthin'  in  his  insides,  I  guess.  He 
don't  say  nothin',  but  he  gits  as  white  as  a  piece 
o'  chalk,  and  then  purple  arter  it." 

Mrs.  Carpenter  made  no  more  delay,  but  bade 
'Siah  fetch  the  sick  man  in;  and  herself  hastily 
threw  open  the  windows  of  the  "spare  room"  and 
put  sheets  on  the  bed.  She  had  time  for  all  her 
preparations,  for  the  bringing  the  stranger  to  the 
house  was  a  work  of  some  difficulty,  and  not  ac- 
complished without  the  help  of  one  of  the  hired 
men  about  the  farm.  When  he  came,  he  was  far 
too  ill  to  give  any  account  of  himself;  his  dress 
proclaimed  him  a  well-to-do  man,  and  belonging 
to  the  better  classes;  that  was  all  they  knew. 

As  Mrs.  Carpenter  came  out  from  seeing  the 
stranger  put  to  bed  in  the  spare  room,  her  husband 
came  in  from  the  field.  An  intellectual  looking 
man,  in  spite  of  his  farmer's  dress,  and  handsome; 
but  thin,  worn,  with  an  undue  flush  on  his  cheek, 
and  a  cough  that  sounded  hollow.  He  was  very 
like  his  little  daughter,  who  instantly  laid  hold  of 
him. 

"  Father,  father !  something  has  happened.  Guess 
what.  There's  a  sick  man  stopped  here,  and  he  is 
in  the  spare  room,  and  we  don't  know  the  least  bit 


THE  LETTER.  15 

who  he  is;  only  'Siah  Barker  said  he  was  English, 
or  an  '  Englisher,'  he  said.  We  don't  know  a  bit 
who  he  is;  and  his  clothes  are  very  nice,  like  a 
gentleman,  and  his  valise  is  a  beautiful,  handsome 
leather  one." 

"You  use  rather  more  adjectives  than  necessary, 
Rotha." 

"  But,  father,  that  is  something  to  happen,  isn't 
it?" 

"You  speak  as  if  you  were  glad  of  it." 

"  I  am  not  glad  the  man  is  sick.  I  am  just  glad 
to  have  something  happen.  Things  never  do  hap- 
pen here." 

"  I  am  afraid  your  mother  will  hardly  feel  as 
much  pleased  as  you  do.  Is  the  man  very  ill, 
Eunice?" 

"  I  think  so.     He  is  too  ill  to  tell  how  he  feels." 

"  He  mav  be  on  your  hands  then  for  a  day  or 
two." 

"  He  may  for  more  than  that." 

"How  can  you  manage?"  said  Mr.  Carpenter, 
looking  anxiously  at  the  sweet  face  which  already 
bore  such  lines  of  care,  and  was  so  work-worn. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  shall  find  out,"  Mrs.  Carpen- 
ter answered  as  she  was  dishing  the  dinner.  "  The 
Lord  seems  to  have  given  me  this  to  do ;  and  he 
knows.  I  guess,  what  he  gives  me  to  do,  I  can 
do." 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  say  that,  mother," 
Rotha  put  in  here. 

"What?" 


16  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"This  man  was  taken  sick  on  the  road,  and 
happened  to  come  in  here.  How  can  you  say,  the 
Lord  gave  him  to  you  to  take  care  of?  " 

"Nothing  'happens,'  Rotha.  Suppose  his  sick- 
ness had  come  on  a  little  sooner,  or  a  little  later  ? 
why  was  it  just  here  that  he  found  he  could  go  no 
further?" 

"Do  you  suppose  there  was  any  'why'  about 
it?" 

Father  and  mother  both  smiled ;  the  father 
answered. 

"Do  you  suppose  I  would  plough  a  field,  without 
meaning  to  get  any  fruit  from  it." 

"No,  father." 

"  Neither  does  the  Lord,  my  child." 

Rotha  pondered  the  subject,  and  had  occasion  to 
ponder  it  more  as  the  days  went  on.  She  found 
she  had  some  share  in  the  consequences  of  this 
"happening";  more  dishes  to  wash,  and  more 
sweeping  and  dusting,  and  churning,  and  setting 
of  tables,  and  cleaning  of  vegetables;  and  she 
quite  ceased  to  be  glad  that  something  had  come 
to  them  out  of  the  common  run  of  affairs.  For 
several  days  her  mother  was  much  engaged  in  the 
care  of  the  sick  man,  and  put  all  she  could  of  the 
housework  upon  Rotha's  hands;  the  nursing  kept 
herself  very  busy.  The  sickness  was  at  first 
severe;  and  then  the  mending  was  gradual;  so 
that  it  was  full  two  weeks  before  the  stranger 
could  leave  his  room.  Mrs.  Carpenter  had  no 
servant  in  the  house ;  she  did  everything  for  him 


THE  LETTER.  17 

with  her  own  hands ;  and  with  as  much  care  and 
tenderness  and  exactness  it  was  done  as  if  the  sick 
man  had  been  a  dear  friend.  By  day  and  by 
night;  nothing  failed  him;  and  so,  in  about  two 
weeks,  he  was  healed  and  had  only  his  weakness 
to  recover  from.  Mrs.  Carpenter  often  looked  tired 
and  pale  during  those  weeks,  but  cheerfulness  and 
courage  never  gave  out. 

"I  have  learned  something,"  she  said  one  day 
at  dinner,  as  the  two  weeks  were  ended. 

"What  is  that? "  her  husband  asked. 

"The  name  of  our  guest." 

"Well  who  is  he?" 

"He  is  English;  his  name  is  Southwode.  He 
came  to  America  on  business  two  months  ago ;  to 
New  York;  then  found  it  was  needful  for  him 
to  see  some  people  in  Rochester;  and  was  on  his 
way  when  he  was  taken  ill  at  our  door." 

"That's  all?" 

"  Pretty  much  all  He  is  not  much  of  a  talker. 
I  never  found  out  so  much  till  to-day." 

"It  is  quite  enough.  I  suppose  he  will  go  on 
to  Rochester  now?" 

"Not  for  two  or  three  days  yet,  Liph;  he  is  very 
weak;  but  I  guess  we  will  have  him  out  to  supper 
with  us  this  evening.  You  may  put  a  glass  of 
roses  on  the  table,  Rotha,  and  make  it  look  very 
nice.  And  set  the  table  in  the  halL" 

Unlike  most  of  its  kind,  this  farmhouse  had  a 
wide  hall  running  through  the  middle  of  it.  Prob- 
ably it  had  been  built  originally  for  somewhat  dif- 


18  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

ferent  occupation.  At  any  rate,  the  hall  served  as 
a  great  comfort  to  Mrs.  Carpenter  in  the  summer 
season,  enabling  her  to  get  out  of  the  hot  kitchen, 
without  opening  her  best  room,  the  "parlour." 

It  was  a  pretty  enough  view  that  greeted  the 
stranger  here,  when  he  was  called  to  supper  and 
crept  out  of  his  sick  room.  Doors  stood  open  at 
front  and  rear  of  the  house,  letting  the  breeze  play 
through.  It  brought  the  odours  of  the  new  hay 
and  the  shorn  grass,  mingled  with  the  breath  of 
roses.  Roses  were  on  the  table  too ;  a  great  glass 
full  of  them ;  not  skilfully  arranged,  certainly,  but 
heavy  with  sweetness  and  lovely  in  various  hues 
of  red  and  blush  white.  A  special  comfortable 
chair  was  placed  for  him,  and  a  supper  served 
with  which  an  epicure  could  have  found  no  fault. 
Mrs.  Carpenter's  bread  was  of  the  lightest  and 
whitest;  the  butter  was  as  if  the  cows  had  been 
eating  roses ;  the  cold  ham  was  cured  after  an  old 
receipt,  and  tender  and  juicy  and  savoury  to  suit 
any  fastidious  appetite;  and  there  were  big  golden 
raspberries,  and  cream  almost  as  golden.  Out  of 
doors,  the  eye  saw  green  fields,  with  an  elm  stand- 
ing here  and  there;  and  on  one  side,  a  bit  of  the 
kitchen  garden.  Mr.  Southwode  was  a  silent  man, 
at  least  he  was  certainly  silent  here ;  but  he  was 
observant;  and  his  looks  went  quietly  from  one 
thing  to  another,  taking  it  all  in.  Perhaps  the 
combination  was  strange  to  him  and  gave  him 
matter  for  study.  There  was  conversation  too,  as 
the  meal  went  on,  which  occupied  his  ears,  though 


THE  LETTER.  19 

he  could  hardly  be  said  to  take  an  active  part  in 
it.  His  host  made  kind  efforts  for  his  entertain- 
ment; and  Rotha  and  her  father  had  always  some- 
thing to  discuss.  Mr.  Southwode  listened.  It  was 
not  the  sort  of  talk  he  expected  to  hear  in  a 
farmhouse.  The  girl  was  full  of  intelligence,  the 
father  quite  able  to  meet  her,  and  evidently  doing 
it  with  delight;  the  questions  they  talked  about 
were  worthy  the  trouble;  and  while  on  the  one 
hand  there  was  keen  inquisitiveness  and  natural 
acumen,  on  the  other  there  was  knowledge  and 
the  habit  of  thought  and  ease  of  expression.  Mr. 
Southwode  listened,  and  now  and  then  let  his  eye 
go  over  to  the  fair,  placid,  matronly  face  at  the 
head  of  the  table.  Mrs.  Carpenter  did  not  talk 
much ;  yet  he  saw  that  she  understood.  And  more ; 
he  saw  that  in  both  father  and  mother  there  was 
culture  and  literary  taste  and  literary  knowledge. 
Yet  she  did  her  own  work,  and  he  came  in  to-day 
in  his  shirt  sleeves  from  the  mowing  of  his  own 
fields.  Mr.  Southwode  drew  conclusions,  partly 
false  perhaps,  but  partly  true.  He  thought  these 
people  had  seen  what  are  called  better  days;  he 
was  sure  that  they  were  going  through  more  or 
less  of  a  struggle  now.  Moreover,  he  saw  that 
the  farmer  was  not  strong  in  body  or  sound  in 
health,  and  he  perceived  that  the  farmer's  wife 
knew  it. 

The  supper  ended,  a  new  scene  opened  for  his 
consideration.  With  quick  and  skilful  hands  the 
mother  and  daughter  cleared  the  table,  carrying 


20  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

the  things  into  the  kitchen.  Rotha  brought  a 
Bible  and  laid  it  before  her  father;  and  mother 
and  daughter  resumed  their  seats.  Mr.  Carpenter 
read  a  chapter,  like  a  man  who  both  knew  and 
loved  it;  and  then,  a  book  being  given  to  the 
stranger,  the  other  three  set  up  a  hymn.  There 
was  neither  formality  nor  difficulty;  as  the  one 
had  read,  so  they  all  sang,  as  if  they  loved  it. 
The  voices  were  not  remarkable;  what  was  re- 
markable, to  the  guest,  was  the  sweet  intonations 
and  the  peculiar  appropriation  with  which  the 
song  was  sung.  It  was  a  very  common  hymn, — 

"  Jesus,  I  love  thy  charming  name, 
'Tis  music  to  my  ear; " — 

And  Mr.  Southwode  noticed  a  thing  which 
greatly  stirred  his  curiosity.  As  the  singing  went 
on,  the  lines  of  those  careworn  faces  relaxed;  Mrs. 
Carpenter's  brow  lost  its  shadow,  her  husband's 
face  wore  an  incipient  smile;  it  was  quite  plain 
that  both  of  them  had  laid  down  for  the  moment 
the  burden  which  it  was  also  quite  plain  they 
carried  at  other  times.  What  had  become  of  it? 
and  what  power  had  unloosed  them  from  it  ?  Not 
the  abstract  love  of  music,  certainly;  though  the 
melody  which  they  sang  was  sweet,  and  the  notes 
floated  out  upon  the  evening  air  with  a  kind  of 
grave  joy.  So  as  the  summer  breeze  was  wafted 
in.  There  was  a  harmony,  somehow,  between  the 
outer  world  and  this  little  inner  world,  for  the 
time,  which  moved  Mr.  Southwode  strangely, 


THE  LETTER.  21 

though  he  could  not.  at  all  understand  it.  He 
made  no  remark  when  the  service  was  over,  either 
upon  that  or  upon  any  other  subject.  Of  course 
the  service  ended  with  a  prayer.  Not  a  long  one; 
and  as  it  was  in  the  reading  and  singing,  so  in 
this;  every  word  was  simply  said  and  meant.  So 
evidently,  that  the  stranger  was  singularly  im- 
pressed with  the  reality  of  the  whole  thing,  as 
contradistinguished  from  all  formal  or  merely  duty 
work,  and  as  being  a  matter  of  enjoyment  to  those 
engaged  in  it. 

He  had  several  occasions  for  renewing  his  ob- 
servations ;  for  Mr.  Southwode's  condition  of  weak- 
ness detained  him  yet  several  days  at  the  farm- 
house. He  established  for  himself  during  this 
interval  the  character  he  had  gained  of  a  silent 
man;  however,  one  afternoon  he  broke  through 
his  habit  and  spoke.  It  was  the  day  before  he 
intended  to  continue  his  journey.  Rotha  had 
gone  to  the  field  with  her  father,  to  have  some 
fun  in  the  hay;  Mr.  Southwode  and  Mrs.  Carpenter 
sat  together  in  the  wide  farmhouse  hall.  The  day 
being  very  warm,  they  had  come  to  the  coolest 
place  they  could  find.  Mrs.  Carpenter  was  busy 
with  mending  clothes;  her  guest  for  some  time 
sat  idly  watching  her;  admiring,  as  he  had  done 
often  already,  the  calm,  sweet  strength  of  this 
woman's  face.  What  a  beauty  she  must  have 
been  once,  he  thought;  all  the  lines  were  finely 
drawn  and  delicate;  and  the  soul  that  looked  forth 
of  them  was  refined  by  nature  and  purified  by 


22  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

patience.  Mr.  Southwode  had  something  to  say  to 
her  this  afternoon,  and  did  not  know  how  to  begin. 

"  Your  husband  seems  to  have  a  fine  farm  here," 
he  remarked. 

"  It  is,  I  believe,"  Mrs.  Carpenter  answered,  with- 
out lifting  her  eyes  from  her  darning. 

"  He  took  me  over  some  of  his  ground  this  morn- 
ing. He  knows  what  to  do  with  it,  too.  It  is  in 
good  order." 

"It  would  be  in  good  order,  if  my  husband  had 
his  full  strength." 

"Yes.     I  am  sorry  to  see  he  has  not." 

"  Did  he  say  anything  to  you  about  it  ?  "  the  wife 
enquired  presently,  with  a  smothered  apprehen- 
siveness  which  touched  her  companion.  He  an- 
swered however  indifferently  in  the  negative. 

"I  don't  like  his  cough,  though,"  he  went  on 
after  a  little  interval.  "  Have  you  had  advice  for 
him  ?  " 

There  was  a  startled  look  of  pain  in  the  eyes 
which  again  met  him,  and  the  lips  closed  upon  one 
another  a  little  more  firmly.  They  always  had 
a  firm  though  soft  set,  and  the  corners  of  the  mouth 
told  of  long  and  patient  endurance.  Now  the 
face  told  of  another  stab  of  pain,  met  and  borne. 

"  He  would  not  call  in  anybody,"  she  said  faintly. 

That  was  not  what  Mr.  Southwode  had  meant  to 
talk  about,  though  closely  connected  with  the  sub- 
ject of  his  thoughts.  He  would  try  again. 

"  I  owe  you  a  great  debt  of  gratitude,  Mrs.  Car- 
penter," he  said  after  a  long  enough  pause  had 


THE  LETTER.  23 

ensued,  and  beginning  on  another  side.  "I  pre- 
sume you  have  saved  my  life." 

"  I  am  very  glad  we  have  been  able  to  do  any- 
thing," she  said  quietly.  "There  is  no  need  of 
thanks." 

"But  I  must  speak  them,  or  I  should  not  de- 
serve to  live.  It  astonishes  me,  how  you  should 
be  so  kind  to  an  entire  stranger." 

"That's  why  you  needed  it,"  she  said  with  a 
pleasant  smile. 

"Yes,  yes,  my  need  is  one  thing;  that  was  plain 
enough ;  but  if  everybody  took  care  of  other  peo- 
ple's needs — Why,  you  have  done  everything  for 
me,  night  and  day,  Mrs.  Carpenter.  You  have  not 
spared  yourself  in  the  least;  and  I  have  given  a 
deal  of  trouble." 

"I  did  not  think  it  trouble,"  she  said  in  the 
same  way.  "There  is  no  need  to  say  anything 
about  it." 

"Excuse  me;  I  must  say  something,  or  earn  my 
own  contempt.  But  what  made  you  do  all  that 
for  a  person  who  was  nothing  to  you  ?  I  do  not 
understand  that  sort  of  thing,  in  such  a  degree." 

"  Perhaps  you  do  not  put  it  the  right  way,"  she 
returned.  "  Anybody  who  is  in  trouble  is  some- 
thing to  me." 

"  What,  pray  ?  "  said  he  quickly. 

"My  neighbour," — she  said  with  that  slight, 
pleasant  smile  again.  "  Don't  you  know  the  gos- 
pel rule  is,  to  do  to  others  what  you  would  wish 
them  to  do  to  you  ?  " 


24  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  I  never  saw  anybody  before  who  observed  that 
rule*" 

"Didn't  you?  I  am  sorry  for  that.  It  is  a 
pleasant  rule  to  follow." 

"Pleasant!"  her  guest  echoed.  "Excuse  me; 
you  cannot  mean  that  ?  " 

"I  mean  it,  yes,  certainly.  And  there  is  another 
thing,  Mr.  Southwode;  1  like  to  do  whatever  my 
Master  gives  me  to  do;  and  he  gave  you  to  me 
to  take  care  of." 

"Did  he?" 

"I  think  so." 

"  You  did  it,"  said  the  stranger  slowly.  "  Mrs. 
Carpenter,  I  am  under  very  great  obligations  to 
you." 

"  You  are  very  welcome,"  she  said  simply. 

"You  have  done  more  for  me  than  you  know. 
I  never  saw  what  religion  can  be — what  religion 
is — until  I  saw  it  in  your  house." 

She  was  silent  now,  and  he  was  silent  also,  for 
some  minutes;  not  knowing  exactly  how  to  go  on. 
He  felt  instinctively  that  he  must  not  offer  money 
here.  The  people  were  poor  unquestionably;  at 
the  same  time  they  did  not  belong  to  the  class 
that  can  take  that  sort  of  pay  for  service.  He 
never  thought  of  offering  it.  They  were  quite  his 
equals. 

"Mr.  Carpenter  was  so  good  as  to  tell  me  some- 
thing of  his  affairs  as  we  walked  this  morning," 
he  began  again.  "  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  his  land 
is  heavily  encumbered." 


THE  LETTER.  25 

"  Yes !  "  Mrs.  Carpenter  said  with  a  sigh,  and  a 
shadow  crossing  her  face. 

"  That  sort  of  thing  cannot  be  helped  sometimes, 
but  it  is  a  bother,  and  it  leads  to  more  bother. 
Well !  I  should  like  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  friend, 
by  you  and  your  husband;  but  I  shall  be  a  friend 
a  good  way  off.  Mrs.  Carpenter,  do  not  be  of- 
fended at  my  plain  speaking; — I  would  say,  that 
if  ever  you  find  yourself  in  difficulties  and  need  a 
friend's  help,  I  would  like  you  to  remember  me, 
and  deliver  that  letter  according  to  the  address." 

He  handed  her  as  he  spoke  a  letter,  sealed,  and 
addressed  to  "  Messrs.  Bell  &  Buckingham,  46  Bar- 
clay St.,  New  York."  Mrs.  Carpenter  turned  the 
letter  over,  in  silent  surprise;  looked  at  the  great 
red  seal  and  read  the  direction. 

"Keep  it  safe,"  Mr.  South wode  went  on,  "and 
use  it  if  ever  you  have'  occasion.  Do  not  open  it ; 
for  I  shall  not  be  at  the  place  where  it  is  to  be 
delivered,  and  an  open  letter  would  not  carry  the 
same  credit.  With  the  letter,  if  ever  you  have 
occasion  to  make  use  of  it,  enclose  a  card  with 
your  address;  that  my  agent  may  know  where  to 
find  you." 

"You  are  very  kind !"  Mrs.  Carpenter  said  in  a 
little  bewilderment;  "but  nothing  of  this  kind  is 
necessary." 

"I  hope  it  may  not  be  needed;  however,  I  shall 
feel  better,  if  you  will  promise  me  to  do  as  I  have 
said,  if  ever  you  do  need  it." 

Mrs.  Carpenter  gave  the  promise,  and  looked  at 


26  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

the  letter  curiously  as  she  put  it  away.  Would 
the  time  ever  come  when  she  would  be  driven  to 
use  it?  Such  a  time  could  not  come,  unless  after 
the  wreck  of  her  home  and  her  life  happiness; 
never  could  come  while  her  husband  lived.  If  it 
came,  what  would  matter  then?  But  there  was 
the  letter;  almost  something  uncanny;  it  looked 
like  a  messenger  out  of  the  unknown  future. 


CHAPTER  IL 

MOVING. 

MR.  SOUTHWODE  went  away,  his  letter  was 
locked  up  in  a  drawer,  and  both  were  soon 
forgotten.  The  little  family  he  left  had  enough 
else  to  think  of. 

As  the  warm  weather  turned  to  cold,  it  became 
more  and  more  evident  that  the  head  of  the  family 
was  not  to  be  with  it  long.  Mr.  Carpenter  was  ill. 
Nevertheless,  with  failing  strength,  he  continued 
to  carry  the  burden  that  had  been  too  much  for 
him  when  well.  He  would  not  spare  himself. 
The  work  must  be  done,  he  said,  or  the  interest  on 
the  mortgages  could  not  be  paid.  He  wrought 
early  and  late,  and  saw  to  it  that  his  hired  people 
did  their  part ;  he  wore  himself  out  the  quicker ;  but 
the  interest  on  the  mortgages  was  not  paid,  even 
so.  Mrs.  Carpenter  saw  just  how  things  were 
going,  saw  it  step  by  step,  and  was  powerless  to 
hinder. 

"  They  will  foreclose  !  "  Mr.  Carpenter  said  with 
a  half  groan.  It  was  late  in  the  winter;  towards 
spring;  his  health  had  failed  rapidly  of  late;  and 
it  was  no  secret  either  to  him  or  his  wile  that 


28  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

his  weeks  were  numbered.  They  were  sitting 
together  one  evening  before  the  fire;  he  in  his 
easy  chair,  and  she  beside  him;  but  not  holding 
each  other's  hands,  not  touching,  nor  looking  at 
one  another.  Their  blood  was  of  a  genuine  New 
England  course;  and  people  of  that  kind,  though 
they  would  die  for  one  another,  rarely  exchange 
kisses.  And  besides,  there  are  times  when  ca- 
resses cannot  be  borne;  they  mean  too  much. 
Perhaps  this  was  such  a  time.  Mrs.  Carpenter  sat 
staring  into  the  fire,  her  brow  drawn  into  fine 
wrinkles,  which  was  with  her  a  sign  of  uncom- 
mon perturbation.  It  was  after  a  time  of  silence 
that  her  husband  came  out  with  that  word  about 
foreclosing. 

"  If  I  had  been  stronger,"  he  went  on,  "  I  could 
have  taken  in  that  twenty  acre  lot  and  planted  it 
with  wheat;  and  that  would  have  made  some  dif- 
ference. Now  I  am  behindhand — and  I  could  not 
help  it — and  they  will  foreclose." 

"  They  cannot  do  it  till  next  fall,"  said  Mrs.  Car- 
penter; and  her  secret  thought  was,  By  that  time, 
nothing  will  matter ! 

"No,"  said  her  husband, — "not  until  fall.  But 
then  they  will.  Eunice,  what  will  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  will  find  something  to  do." 

"What?  Tell  me  now,  while  I  can  counsel 
you." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  I  could  do,  but  take  in 
sewing."  She  spoke  calmly,  all  the  while  a  tear 
started  which  she  did  not  suffer  to  be  seen. 


MOVING.  29 

"Sewing?"  said  Mr.  Carpenter.  "There  are 
too  many  in  the  village  already  that  do  sewing — 
more  than  can  live  by  it." 

"If  I  cannot  here,"  his  wife  said  after  a  pause, 
overcoming  herself, — "I  might  go  to  New  York. 
Serena  would  help  me  to  get  some  work." 

"  Would  she  ?  "  asked  her  husband. 

"  I  think  she  would." 

"Your  charity  always  goes  ahead  of  mine, 
Eunice." 

"You  think  she  would  not?" 

"I  wouldn't  like  to  have  you  dependent  on  her. 
— This  is  what  you  get  for  marrying  a  poor  man, 
Eunice ! " 

He  smiled  and  stretched  out  his  hand  to  take 
the  hand  of  his  wife. 

"  Hush !  "  she  said.  "  I  married  a  richer  man 
than  she  did.  And  I  have  wanted  for  nothing. 
We  have  not  been  poor." 

"No,"  he  said.  "Except  in  this  world's  goods 
— which  are  unimportant.  Until  one  is  leaving 
one's  wife  and  child  alone  !  " 

I  suppose  she  could  not  speak,  for  she  answered 
nothing.  The  fingers  clasped  fingers  fast  and 
hard;  wrung  them  a  little.  Yet  both  faces  were 
steady.  Mrs.  Carpenter's  eyes  looked  somewhat 
rigidly  into  the  fire,  and  her  husband's  brow  wore 
a  shadow. 

"I  wish  your  father  had  left  you  at  least  the 
old  place  at  Tanfield.  It  would  have  been  no 
more  than  justice.  Serena  might  have  had  all 


30  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

the  rest,  but  that  would  have  given  you  and 
Rotha  a  home." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Mrs.  Carpenter  gently.  "  I 
am  content  with  my  share." 

"  Meaning  me  !  "     And  he  sighed. 

"  The  best  share  of  this  world's  goods  any  wo- 
man could  have,  Liph." 

"We  have  been  happy,"  he  said,  "in  spite  of  all. 
"We  have  had  happy  years;  happier  I  could  not 
wish  for,  but  for  this  money  trouble.  And  we 
shall  have  happy  years  again,  Eunice ;  where  the 
time  is  not  counted  by  years,  but  flows  on  for- 
ever, and  people  are  not  poor,  nor  anxious,  nor 
disappointed." 

She  struggled  with  tears  again,  and  then  an- 
swered, "  I  have  not  been  disappointed.  And  you 
have  no  need  to  be  anxious." 

"No,  I  know,"  he  said.  "But  at  times  it  is 
hard  for  faith  to  get  above  sense.  And  I  am  not 
anxious;  only  I  would  like  to  know  how  you  are 
going  to  do." 

There  was  a  silence  then  of  some  length. 

"  Things  are  pretty  unequal  in  this  world,"  Mr. 
Carpenter  began  again.  "  Look  at  Serena  and  you. 
One  sister  with  more  than  she  can  use;  the  other 
talking  of  sewing  for  a  livelihood !  And  all  because 
you  would  marry  a  poor  man.  A  poor  reason ! " 

"  Liph,  I  had  my  choice,"  his  wife  said,  with  a 
shadow  of  a  smile.  "  She  is  the  one  to  be  pitied." 

"  Well,  I  think  so,"  he  said.  "  For  if  her  heart 
were  as  roomy  as  her  purse,  she  would  have  shewn 


MOVING.  31 

it  before  now.  My  dear,  do  not  expect  anything 
from  Serena.  Till  next  fall  you  will  have  the 
shelter  of  this  house;  and  that  will  give  you  time 
to  look  about  you." 

"Liph,  you  must  not  talk  so!"  his  wife  cried; 
and  her  voice  broke.  She  threw  herself  upon  her 
husband's  breast,  and  they  held  each  other  in  a 
very  long,  still,  close  embrace. 

Mr.  Carpenter  was  quite  right  in  some  at  least 
of  his  expectations.  His  own  life  was  not  pro- 
longed to  the  summer.  In  one  of  the  last  days 
of  a  rough  spring,  the  time  came  he  had  spoken 
of,  when  his  wife  and  child  were  left  alone. 

She  had  till  fall  to  look  about  her.  But  per- 
haps, in  the  bitterness  of  her  loneliness,  she  had 
not  heart  to  push  her  search  after  work  with  suf- 
ficient energy.  Yet  Mrs.  Carpenter  never  lacked 
energy,  and  indulged  herself  selfishly  no  more  in 
grief  than  she  did  in  joy.  More  likely  it  is  that 
in  the  simple  region  of  country  she  inhabited  there 
was  not  call  enough  for  the  work  she  could  do. 
Work  did  not  come,  at  any  rate.  The  only  real 
opening  for  her  to  earn  her  livelihood,  was  in  the 
shape  of  a  housekeeper's  situation  with  an  old 
bachelor  farmer,  who  was  well  off  and  had  nobody 
to  take  care  of  him.  In  her  destitution,  I  do  not 
know  but  Mrs.  Carpenter  might  have  put  up  with 
even  this  plan;  but  what  was  she  to  do  with 
Rotha?  So  by  degrees  the  thought  forced  itself 
upon  her  that  she  must  take  up  her  old  notion 
and  go  to  the  great  city,  where  there  were  always 


32  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

people  enough  to  want  everything.  How  to  get 
there,  and  what  to  do  on  first  arriving  there,  re- 
mained questions.  Both  were  answered. 

As  Mr.  Carpenter  had  foreseen,  the  mortgages 
came  in  the  fall  to  foreclosure.  The  sale  of  the 
land,  however,  what  he  had  not  foreseen,  brought 
in  a  trifle  more  than  the  mortgage  amount.  To 
this  little  sum  the  sale  of  household  goods  and  fur- 
niture and  stock,  added  another  somewhat  larger; 
so  that  altogether  a  few  hundreds  stood  at  Mrs. 
Carpenter's  disposal.  This  precisely  made  her  un- 
dertaking possible.  It  was  a  very  doubtful  under- 
taking ;  but  what  alternative  was  there  ?  One 
relation  she  would  find,  at  the  least;  and  another 
Mrs.  Carpenter  had  not  in  the  wide  world.  She 
made  her  preparations  very  quietly,  as  she  did 
everything;  her  own  child  never  knew  how  much 
heart-break  was  in  them. 

"Shall  we  go  first  to  aunt  Serena's,  mother?" 
Eotha  asked  one  day. 

"No." 

The  "no"  was  short  and  dry.  Rotha's  instinct 
told  her  she  must  not  ask  why,  but  she  was  dis- 
appointed. From  a  word  now  and  then  she  had 
got  the  impression  that  this  relation  of  theirs  was 
a  very  rich  woman  and  lived  accordingly;  and 
fancy  had  been  busy  with  possibilities. 

"  Where  then,  mother  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Forbes,"  he  was  the  storekeeper  at  the  vil- 
lage, "has  told  me  of  the  boarding  house  he  goes 
to  when  he  goes  to  New  York.  We  can  put  up 


MOVING.  33 

there  for  a  night  or  two,  and  look  out  a  quiet 
lodging." 

"  What  is  New  York  like,  mother  ?  " 

"I  have  never  been  there,  Kotha,  and  do  not 
know.  0  it  is  a  city,  my  child;  of  course;  it  is  not 
like  anything  here." 

"How  different?" 

"In  every  possible  way." 

"Every  way,  mother  ?     Aren't  the  houses  like ?  " 

"Not  at  all.  And- the  houses  there  stand  close 
together." 

"  There  must  be  room  to  get  about,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"Those  are  the  streets." 

"No  green  grass,,  or  trees?" 

"  Little  patches  of  grass  in  the  yards." 

"No  trees?" 

"No.  In  some  of  the  fine  streets  I  believe  there 
are  shade  trees." 

"  No  gardens,  mother  ?  " 

"No." 

"But  what  do  people  do  for  vegetables  and 
things  ?  " 

"They  are  brought  out  of  the  country,  and  sold 
in  the  markets.  Don't  you  know  Mr.  Jones  sends 
his  potatoes  and  his  fruit  to  the  city  ?  " 

"Then  if  you  want  a  potato,  you  must  go  to  the 
market  and  buy  it  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Or  an  apple,  mother?" 

"Yes,  or  anything." 

"  Well  I  suppose  that  will  do,"  said  Rotha  slowly, 


34  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"if  you  have  money  enough.  I  shouldn't  think 
it  was  pleasant.  Do  the  houses  stand  dose  to- 
gether ?" 

"So  close,  that  you  cannot  lay  a  pin  between 
them." 

"1  should  want  to  have  very  good  neighbours, 
then." 

Rotha  was  innocently  touching  point  after  point 
of  doubt  and  dread  in  her  mother's  mind.  Pres- 
ently she  touched  another. 

"I  don't  think  it  sounds  pleasant,  mother.  Sup- 
pose we  should  not  like  it  after  we  get  there  ?  " 

Mrs.  Carpenter  did  not  answer. 

"What  then,  mother?  Would  you  come  back 
again,  if  we  did  not  like  it  there  ?  " 

"  There  would  be  no  place  to  come  to,  here,  any 
more,  my  child.  I  hope  we  shall  find  it  comfort- 
able where  we  are  going." 

"Then  you  don't  know?"  said  Eotha.  "And 
perhaps  we  shall  not !  But,  mother,  that  would  be 
dreadful,  if  we  did  not  like  it !  " 

"  I  hope  you  would  help  me  to  bear  it." 

"  I ! "  said  Rotha.  "  You  don't  want  help  to  bear 
anything;  do  you,  mother?" 

An  involuntary  gush  of  tears  came  at  this  ap- 
peal ;  they  were  not  suffered  to  overflow. 

"I  should  not  be  able  to  bear  much  without 
help,  Rotha.  Want  help?  yes,  I  want  it — and  I 
have  it.  God  sends  nothing  to  his  children  but  he 
sends  help  too;  else,"  said  Mrs.  Carpenter,  brush- 
ing her  hand  across  her  eyes,  "they  would  not 


MOVING.  35 

last  long !  But,  Rotha,  lie  means  that  we  should 
help  each  other  too." 

"  I  help  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  certainly.     You  can,  a  great  deal." 

"That  seems  very  funny.  Mother,  what  is 
wrong  about  aunt  Serena  ?  "  said  Kotha,  following 
a  very  direct  chain  of  ideas. 

"  I  hope  nothing  is  wrong  about  her." 

And  Mrs.  Carpenter,  in  her  gentle,  unselfish 
charity,  meant  it  honestly ;  her  little  daughter  was 
less  gentle  and  perhaps  more  logical. 

"  Why,  mother,  does  she  ever  do  anything  to 
help  you  ?  " 

"Her  life  is  quite  separate  from  mine,"  Mrs. 
Carpenter  replied  evasively. 

"Well,  it  would  be  right  in  her  to  help  you. 
And  when  people  are  not  right,  they  are  wrong." 

"  Let  us  take  care  of  our  own  right  and  wrong, 
Kotha.  We  shall  have  enough  to  do  with  that." 

"But,  mother,  what  is  the  matter  with  aunt 
Serena  ?  Why  doesn't  she  help  you  ?  She  can." 

"Our  lives  went  different  ways,  a  long  time 
ago,  my  child.  We  have  never  been  near  each 
other  since." 

"But  now  you  are  going  to  be  where  she  is, 
mother?" 

"  Rotha,  did  you  rip  up  your  brown  merino  ?  " 

"  Not  yet." 

"  Then  go  and  do  it  now.  I  want  it  to  make 
over  for  you." 

"  You'll  never  make  much  of  that,"  said  the  girl 


36  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

discontentedly.  But  she  obeyed.  She  saw  a  cer- 
tain trait  in  the  lines  of  her  mother's  lips ;  it  might 
be  reserve,  it  might  be  determination,  or  both; 
and  she  knew  no  more  was  to  be  got  from  her  at 
that  time. 

The  brown  merino  disappointed  her  expectation ; 
for  when  cleaned  and  made  over  it  proved  to  be 
a  very  respectable  dress.  Rotha  was  well  satisfied 
with  it.  The  rest  of  Mrs.  Carpenter's  preparations 
were  soon  accomplished ;  and  one  day  in  November 
she  and  her  little  daughter  left  what  had  been 
home,  and  set  out  upon  their  journey  to  seek  an- 
other in  the  misty  distance.  The  journey  itself 
was  full  of  wonder  and  delight  to  Rotha.  It  was 
a  very  remarkable  thing,  in  the  first  place,  to  find 
the  world  so  large;  then  another  remarkable  thing 
was  the  variety  of  the  people  in  it.  Rotha  had 
known  only  one  kind,  speaking  broadly;  the  plain, 
quiet,  respectable,  and  generally  comfortable  in 
habitants  of  the  village  and  of  the  farms  around 
the  village.  They  were  not  elegant  specimens,  but 
they  were  solid,  and  kindly.  She  saw  many  peo- 
ple now  that  astonished  her  by  their  elegance ;  few 
that  awakened  any  feeling  of  confidence.  Rotha's 
eyes  were  very  busy,  her  tongue  very  silent.  She 
was  taking  her  first  sips  at  the  bitter-sweet  cup 
of  life  knowledge. 

The  third-class  hotel  at  which  they  put  up  in 
New  York  received  her  unqualified  disapprobation. 
None  of  its  arrangements  or  accommodations  suited 
her;  with  the  single  exception  of  gas  burners. 


MOVING.  37 

Close,  stuffy,  confined,  gloomy,  and  dirty,  she  de- 
clared it  to  be.  "Mother,"  she  said  half  crying, 
"I  hope  our  house  will  not  be  like  this?  " 

"We  shall  not  have  a  house,  Kotha;  only  a  few 
rooms." 

"They'll  be  rooms  in  a  house,  I  suppose,"  said 
the  girl  petulantly;  "and  I  hope  it  will  be  very 
different  from  this." 

"  We  will  have  our  part  of  it  clean,  at  any  rate," 
answered  her  mother. 

"  And  the  rest  too,  won't  you  ?  You  would  not 
have  rooms  in  a  house  that  was  not  all  clean, 
would  you,  mother?" 

"Not  if  I  could  help  it." 

"  Cannot  you  help  it  ?" 

"I  hope  so.  But  you  must  not  expect  that 
things  here  in  a  big  city  can  ever  be  bright  and 
sweet  like  the  fields  at  home.  That  can  hardly  be." 

Rotha  sighed.  A  vision. of  dandelions  came  up 
before  her,  and  waving  grass  bent  by  summer 
wind.  But  there  was  hope  that  the  morrow's 
search  would  unfold  to  her  some  less  unpromising 
phases  of  city  life,  and  she  suspended  judgment. 

Next  day,  wonder  and  amusement  for  a  time 
superseded  everything  else.  The  multitude  of 
busy  people  coming  and  going,  the  laden  carts 
and  light  passing  carriages,  the  gay  shops,  and 
the  shops  that  were  not  gay,  filled  Rotha's  eye 
and  mind.  Even  the  vegetables  exposed  at  a 
corner  shop  were  a  matter  of  lively  interest. 

"0  mother,"  she  cried,  "is  this  a  market?" 


38  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"No.     It  is  a  store  for  groceries." 

"Well,  they  have  got  some  other  things  here. 
Mother,  the  cabbages  don't  look  nice."  Then  soon 
after  coming  to  a  small  market  store,  Rotha  must 
stand  still  to  look. 

"They  are  a  little  better  here,"  she  judged. 
"  Mother,  mother !  they  have  got  everything  at 
this  market.  Do  see!  there  are  fish,  and  oysters, 
and  clams ;  and  eggs ;  and — what  are  those  queer 
things?" 

"  Lobsters." 

"  What  are  they  good  for  ?  " 

"  To  eat." 

"  They  don't  look  as  if  they  were  good  for  any- 
thing. Mother,  one  could  get  a  very  good  dinner 
here." 

"  With  plenty  of  money." 

"  Does  it  taki-  much  ? — to  get  one  dinner  ?  " 

"Are  you  hungry?"  said  her  mother,  smiling 
faintly.  "It  takes  a  good  deal  of  money  to  get 
anything  in  New  York,  Rotha." 

"Then  I  am  afraid  we  ought  to  have  staid  at 
Medwayville." 

A  conclusion  which  almost  forced  itself  upon 
Mrs.  Carpenter's  mind.  For  the  business  of  find- 
ing a  lodging  that  would  suit  her  and  that  she 
could  pay  for,  soon  turned  out  to  be  one  of  diffi- 
culty. She  and  Rotha  grew  weary  of  walking, 
and  more  weary  of  looking  at  rooms  that  would 
suit  them  which  they  could  not  pay  for,  and  other 
rooms  which  they  could  pay  for  and  that  would 


MOVING.  39 

not  do.  All  the  houses  in  New  York  seemed  to 
come  under  one  or  the  other  category.  From  one 
house  agency  to  another,  and  from  these  to  count- 
less places  referred  to,  advertised  for  hire,  the 
mother  and  daughter  wandered;  in  vain.  One  or 
the  other  difficulty  met  them  in  every  case. 

"  What  will  you  do,  mother,  if  you  cannot  find  a 
place?"  Eotha  asked,  the  evening  of  the  first 
day.  "  Go  back  to  Medway ville  ?  " 

"  We  cannot  go  back." 

"Then  we  must  find  a  place,"  said  Rotha. 

And  driven  by  this  necessity,  so  they  did.  The 
third  day,  well  tired  in  body  and  much  more  in 
mind,  they  did  at  last  find  what  would  do.  It  was 
a  long  walk  from  their  hotel,  and  seemed  endless. 
No  doubt,  in  the  country,  with  grass  under  their 
feet,  or  even  the  well  beaten  foot  track  beside  the 
highway,  neither  mother  nor  daughter  would  have 
thought  anything  of  the  distance;  but  here  the 
hard  pavement  wearied  them,  and  the  way  meas- 
ured off  by  so  many  turns  and  crossings  and  beset 
with  houses  and  human  beings,  seemed  a  forlorn 
pilgrimage  into  remote  regions.  Besides,  it  left 
the  pleasanter  part  of  the  city  and  went,  as  Rotha 
remarked,  among  poor  folks.  Down  Bleecker  St. 
till  it  turned,  then  following  the  new  stretch  of 
straight  pavement  across  Carmine  St.,  and  on  and 
on  into  the  parts  then  called  Chelsea.  On  till 
they  carne  to  an  irregular  open  space. 

"This  must  be  Abingdon  Square,"  said  the 
mother. 


40  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  It  isn't  square  at  all,"  Rotha  objected. 

"  But  this  must  be  it.  Then  it's  only  one  street 
more,  Rotha.  Look  for  Jane  Street." 

Beyond  Abingdon  Square  Jane  Street  was  found 
to  be  the  next  crossing.  They  turned  the  corner 
and  were  at  the  place  they  sought. 

The  region  was  not  one  of  miserable  poverty  and 
tenant  houses.  Better  than  that;  and  the  build 
ings  being  low  and  small  did  not  darken  the  streets, 
as  Mrs.  Carpenter  had  found  in  some  parts  of  the 
city.  A  decent  woman,  a  mantua-maker,  had  the 
house  and  offered  Mrs.  Carpenter  the  second  floor ; 
two  little  rooms  and  a  closet  off  them.  The  rooms 
were  furnished  after  a  sort;  but  Mrs.  Marble  could 
give  no  board  with  them ;  only  lodging.  She  was 
a  bright,  sharp  little  woman. 

"  Yes,  I  couldn't,"  she  said.  "  It  wouldn't  pay. 
I  couldn't  mind  my  business.  I  take  my  meals  in 
a  corner;  for  I  couldn't  have  grease  and  crumbs 
round ;  but  where  one  person  can  stand,  three  can't 
sit.  You'll  have  to  manage  that  part  yourself. 
It'll  be  cheaper  for  you,  too." 

"  Is  anything  cheap  here  ?  "  Mrs.  Carpenter  asked 
wearily.  She  had  sat  down  to  rest  and  consider. 

"That's  how  you  manage  it,"  said  the  other,  shew- 
ing a  full  and  rather  arch  smile.  She  was  a  little 
woman,  quick  and  alert  in  all  her  ways  and  looks. 
"My  rooms  aint  dear,  to  begin  with;  and  you 
needn't  ruin  yourself  eating;  if  you  know  how." 

"  I  knew  how  in  the  country,"  said  Mrs.  Carpen- 
ter. "  Here  it  is  different." 


MOVING.  41 

"Aint  it!  I  guess  it  is.  Eents,  you  see;  and 
folks  must  live,  landlords  and  all.  Some  of  'em 
do  a  good  deal  more;  but  that  aint  my  lookout. 
I'd  eat  bread  and  salt  sooner  than  I'd  be  in  debt; 
and  I  never  do  be  that.  Is  it  only  you  two  ? " 

"That  is  all." 

"  Then  you  needn't  to  worry.  I  guess  you'll  get 
along." 

For  Mrs.  Marble  noticed  the  quiet  respectability 
of  her  caller,  and  honestly  thought  what  she  said. 
Mrs.  Carpenter  reflected.  The  rooms  were  not 
high;  she  could  save  a  good  deal  by  the  extra 
trouble  of  providing  herself;  she  would  be  more 
private,  and  probably  have  things  better  to  her 
liking.  Besides,  her  very  soul  sickened  at  the 
thought  of  looking  for  any  more  rooms.  She 
decided,  and  took  these.  Then  she  asked  about 
the  possibilities  of  getting  work.  Mrs.  Marble's 
countenance  grew  more  doubtful. 

"  Plain  sewing  ? "  she  said.  "  Well,  there's  a 
good  many  folks  doing  that,  you  see." 

"  I  thought,  perhaps,  you  could  put  me  in  the 
way  of  some." 

"Well,  perhaps  I  can.  I'll  see  what  I  can  think 
of.  But  there's  a  many  doing  that  sort  o'  thing. 
They're  in  every  other  house,  almost.  Now,  when 
will  you  come?" 

"To-morrow.  I  suppose  I  cannot  tell  what  I 
want  to  get  till  I  do  come." 

"I  can  tell  you  some  things  right  off.  You'd 
better  do  part  of  it  to-day,  or  you'll  want  every- 


42  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

thing  at  once.  First  of  all,  you'd  better  order  in 
some  coal.  You  can  get  that  just  a  block  or  two 
off;  Jones  &  Sanford;  they  have  a  coal  yard.  It 
is  very  convenient." 

"Where  can  it  be  put?" 

"  In  the  cellar.  There's  room  enough.  And  if 
I  was  you,  I  wouldn't  get  less  than  half  a  ton. 
They  make  awful  profits  when  they  sell  by  the  bas- 
ket. You  will  want  a  little  kindling  too.  Hadn't 
you  better  get  a  little  bit  of  a  stove?  one  with 
two  places  for  cooking;  or  one  place.  It  will 
save  itself  six  times  over  in  the  course  of  the 
winter." 

"Where  can  I  get  it?" 

"  I  guess  you're  pretty  much  of  a  stranger  here, 
aint  you?" 

"  Entirely  a  stranger." 

"I  thought  so.  Folks  get  a  look  according  to 
the  place  they  live.  You  aint  bad  enough  for 
New  York,"  she  added  with  a  merry  and  acute 
smile. 

"I  hope  there  are  some  good  people  here,"  said 
Mrs.  Carpenter. 

"  I  hope  so.  I  haven't  passed  'em  all  through  my 
sieve;  got  something  else  to  do;  and  it  aint  my 
business  neither.  Well  —  only  don't  you  think 
there  aint  some  bad  ones  in  the  lot,  that's  all. 
There's  plenty  of  places  where  you  can  get  your 
stove,  if  you  want  to.  Elwall's  in  Abingdon 
Square,  is  a  very  good  place.  Some  things  goes 
with  the  stove.  I  guess  you  know  what  you  want 


MOVING.  43 

as  well  as  I  do,"  she  said,  breaking  off  and  smiling 
again. 

"  I  shall  need  bedding  too,"  said  Mrs.  Carpenter, 
with  a  look  at  the  empty  bedstead. 

"You  can't  do  everything  at  once,  if  you're  to 
come  in  to-morrow.  I'll  tell  you — I've  a  bed  you 
can  have,  that  I  aint  using.  It'll  cost  you  less, 
and  do  just  as  well.  I  aint  one  of  the  bad  ones," 
she  said,  again  with  a  gleam  of  a  smile.  "  I 
shan't  cheat  you." 

The  arrangement  was  made  at  last,  and  Mrs. 
Carpenter  and  Rotha  set  out  on  their  way  back. 
They  stopped  in  Abingdon  Square  and  bought  a 
stove,  a  little  tea-kettle,  a  saucepan  and  frying 
pan;  half  a  dozen  knives  and  forks,  spoons,  etc., 
a  lamp,  and  sundry  other  little  indispensable  con- 
veniences for  people  who  would  set  up  housekeep- 
ing. Rotha  was  glad  to  be  quit  of  the  hotel,  and 
yet  in  a  divided  state  of  mind.  Too  tired  to  talk, 
however,  that  night;  which  was  a  happiness  for 
her  mother. 

The  next  day  was  one  of  delightful  bustle;  all 
filled  with  efforts  to  get  in  order  in  the  new  quar- 
ters. And  by  evening  a  great  deal  was  done.  The 
bed  was  made ;  the  washstand  garnished ;  the  little 
stove  put  up,  fire  made  in  it,  and  the  kettle  boiled; 
and  at  night  mother  and  daughter  sat  down  to 
supper  together,  taking  breath  for  the  first  time 
that  day.  Mrs.  Carpenter  had  been  to  a  neigh- 
bouring grocery  and  bought  a  ham  and  bread;  eggs 
were  so  dear  that  they  scared  her;  she  had  cooked 


44  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

a  slice  and  made  tea,  and  Rotha  declared  that  it 
tasted  good. 

"But  this  is  funny  bread,  mother." 

"It  is  baker's  bread." 

"  It  is  nice,  a  little,  but  it  isn't  sweet." 

"  Let  us  be  thankful  we  have  got  it,  Botha." 

"Yes;  but,  mother,  I  think  I  should  be  more 
thankful  for  better  bread." 

"  I  will  try  and  make  you  some  better,"  Mrs. 
Carpenter  said  laughing.  "  This  is  not  economical, 
I  am  sure." 

"Mother,"  said  Rotha,  "do  you  suppose  aunt  Se- 
rena takes  in  sewing  ?  " 

"  She  ?  no.     She  gives  it  out." 

"You  would  not  like  to  do  her  sewing?" 

"  I  shall  not  ask  for  it,"  said  the  mother  calmly. 

"  Does  she  do  her  own  cooking,  as  you  do  ?  " 

"No,  my  child.     She  has  no  need." 

"  Do  you  think  she  is  a  better  woman  than  you 
are,  mother  V  " 

"That's  not  a  wise  question,  I  should  say,"  Mrs. 
Carpenter  returned.  But  something  about  it  flushed 
her  cheek  and  even  brought  an  odd  moisture  to  her 
eyes. 

"Because,"  said  Rotha,  wholly  disregarding  the 
animadversion,  "  if  she  isn't,  I  should  say  that  things 
are  queer." 

"That's  what  Job  thought,  when  his  troubles 
came  on  him." 

"  And  weren't  they  ?  "  asked  Rotha. 

"No.     He  d'id  not  understand;  that  was  all." 


MOVING.  45 

"  I  should  like  to  understand,  though,  mother. 
Not  understanding  makes  me  uneasy." 

"  You  may  be  uneasy  then  all  your  life,  for  there 
will  be  a  great  many  things  you  cannot  understand. 
The  better  way  is  to  trust  and  be  easy." 

"  Trust  what  ?  "  Rotha  asked  quickly. 

"Trust  God.     He  knows." 

"Trust  him  for  what?"  Rotha  insisted. 

"For  everything.  Trust  him  that  he  will  take 
care  of  you,  if  you  are  his  child ;  and  let  no  harm 
come  to  you;  and  do  all  things  right  for  you,  and 
in  the  best  way." 

"Mother,  that  is  trusting  a  good  deal." 

"The  Lord  likes  to  have  us  trust  him." 

"But  you  are  his  child,  and  he  has  let  harm 
come  to  you  ?  " 

"You  think  so,  because  you  know  nothing  about 
it.  No  harm  can  come  to  his  children." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  call  harm,  then,"  said 
Rotha  half  sullenly. 

"Harm  is  what  would  hurt  me.  You  know 
very  well  that  pain  does  not  always  do  that." 

"And  can  you  trust  him,  mother,  so  as  to  be 
easy  ?  Now  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Carpenter.     "Most  days." 

Rotha  knew  from  the  external  signs  that  this 
must  be  true. 

"Are  you  going  to  see  aunt  Serena,  mother?" 

"Not  now." 

"When?" 

"I  do  not  know." 


46  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Where  does  she  live  ?  " 

"  Rotha,  you  may  wash  up  these  dishes,  while  I 
put  things  a  little  to  rights  in  the  other  room." 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Carpenter  set  about  finding 
some  work.  Alas,  if  there  were  many  that  had 
it  to  give,  there  seemed  to  be  many  more  that 
wanted  it.  It  was  worse  than  looking  for  rooms. 
At  last  some  tailoring  was  procured  from  a  master 
tailor;  and  Mrs.  Carpenter  sat  all  day  over  her 
sewing,  giving  directions  to  Rotha  about  the 
affairs  of  the  small  housekeeping.  Rotha  swept 
and  dusted  and  washed  dishes  and  set  the  table, 
and  prepared  vegetables.  Not  much  of  that,  for 
their  meals  were  simple  and  small ;  however,  with 
one  thing  and  another  the  time  was  partly  filled 
up.  Mrs.  Carpenter  stitched.  It  was  a  new  thing, 
and  disagreeable  to  the  one  looker-on,  to  see  her 
mother  from  morning  to  night  bent  over  work 
which  was  not  for  herself.  At  home,  though  life 
was  busy  it  was  not  slaving.  There  were  intervals, 
and  often,  of  rest  and  pleasure  taking.  She  and 
Rotha  used  to  go  into  the  garden  to  gather  vege- 
tables and  to  pick  fruit;  and  at  other  times  to 
weed  and  dress  the  beds  arid  sow  flower  seeds. 
And  at  evening  the  whole  little  family  were  wont 
to  enjoy  the  air  and  the  sunsets  and  the  roses  from 
the  hall  door;  and  to  have  sweet  and  various 
discourse  together  about  a  great  variety  of  sub- 
jects. Those  delights,  it  is  true,  ceased  a  good 
while  ago;  the  talks  especially.  Mrs.  Carpenter 
was  not  much  of  a  talker  even  then,  though  her 


MOVING.  47 

words  were  good  when  they  came.  Now  she  said 
little  indeed;  and  Eotha  missed  her  father.  An 
uneasy  feeling  of  want  and  longing  took  posses- 
sion of  the  child's  mind.  I  suppose  she  felt  men- 
tally what  people  feel  physically  when  they  are 
slowly  starving  to  death.  It  had  not  come  to  that 
yet  with  Rotha;  but  the  initial  fret  and  irritation 
began  to  be  strojag.  Her  mother  seemed  to  be 
turned  into  a  sewing  machine;  a  thinking  one, 
she  had  no  doubt,  nevertheless  the  thoughts  that 
were  never  spoken  did  not  practically  exist  for  her. 
She  was  left  to  her  own;  and  Rotha's  thoughts 
began  to  seethe  arid  boil.  Another  child  would 
have  found  food  enough  and  amusement  enough 
in  the  varied  sights  and  experiences  of  life  in  the 
great  city.  They  made  Rotha  draw  in  to  herself. 


CHAPTER  III. 

JANE    STREET. 

MRS.  CARPENTER'S  patient  face,  as  she  sat  by 
the  window  from  morning  till  night,  and  her 
restless  busy  hands,  by  degrees  became  a  burden 
to  Rotha. 

"  Mother,"  she  said  one  day,  when  her  own  work 
for  the  time  was  done  up  and  she  had  leisure  to 
make  trouble, — "I  do  not  like  to  see  you  doing 
other  people's  sewing." 

"  It  is  my  sewing,"  Mrs.  Carpenter  said. 

"  It  oughtn't  to  be." 

"  I  am  very  thankful  to  have  it." 

"  It  takes  very  little  to  make  you  thankful,  seems 
to  me.  It  makes  me  feel  angry." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  that." 

"Well,  if  you  would  be  angry,  I  wouldn't  be; 
but  you  take  it  so  quietly.  Mother,  it's  wrong !  " 

"What?" 

"For  you  to  be  doing  that  work,  which  some- 
body else  ought  to  do." 

"  If  somebody  else  did  it,  somebody  else  would 
get  the  pay;  and  what  would  become  of  us  then?" 

"  I  don't  see  what's  to  become  of  us  now.    Moth- 
er, you  said  I  was  to  go  to  school." 
(48) 


JANE  STREET.  49 

"  Yes," — and  Mrs.  Carpenter  sighed  here.  "  I 
have  not  had  time  yet  to  find  the  right  school  for 
you." 

"  When  will  you  find  time  ?  Mother,  I  think  it 
was  a  great  deal  better  at  Medwayville." 

Mrs.  Carpenter  sighed  again,  her  patient  sigh, 
which  aggravated  Rotha. 

"  I  don't  like  New  York ! "  the  latter  went  on, 
emphasizing  every  word.  "  There  is  not  one  sin- 
gle thing  here  I  do  like." 

"  I  am  sorry,  my  child.  It  is  not  our  choice  that 
has  brought  us  here." 

"  Couldn't  our  choice  take  us  away  again, 
mother  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  not." 

Eotha  looked  on  at  the  busy  needle  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  then  burst  out  again. 

"  I  think  things  are  qiieer !  That  you  should  be 
working  so,  and  other  people  have  nothing  to  do." 

"  Hush,  Rotha.  Nobody  in  this  world  has  noth- 
ing to  do." 

"Nothing  they  need  do,  then.  You  are  better 
than  they  are." 

"  You  speak  foolishly.  God  gives  everybody 
something  to  do,  and  his  hands  full;  and  the  work 
that  God  gives  we  need  to  do,  Rotha.  He  has 
given  me  this;  and  as  long  as  he  gives  me  his  love 
with  it,  I  think  it  is  good.  He  has  given  you 
your  work  too ;  and  complaining  is  not  a  part  of 
it.  I  hope  to  send  you  to  school,  as  soon  as  ever 
I  can." 


50  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Before  Rotha  had  got  up  her  ammunition  for 
another  attack,  there  was  a  tap  at  the  door,  and 
Mrs.  Marble  came  in.  She  always  seemed  to  bring 
life  with  her. 

"What  do  you  get  for  that?"  she  asked,  after 
she  bad  chatted  awhile,  watching  her  lodger.  Mrs. 
Carpenter  was  making  buttonholes. 

"A  shilling  a  dozen." 

Mrs.  Marble  inspected  the  work. 

"And  how  many  can  you  make  in  that  style 
in  a  day  ?  I  should  like  to  know." 

"  I  cannot  do  this  all  day,"  said  Mrs.  Carpenter. 
"I  get  blind,  and  I  get  nervous.  I  can  make 
about  two  dozen  and  a  half  in  five  hours." 

"  Twenty  five  cents'  worth:  I  declare  !  "  said  the 
little  woman.  "  I  wonder  if  such  folks  will  get  to 
heaven  ?  " 

"  What  folks,  Mrs.  Marble  ?  "  enquired  Rotha,  to 
•whom  this  saying  sounded  doubtful. 

"The  folks  that  want  to  get  so  much  for  so  little. 
They  wouldn't  be  satisfied  with  any  heaven  where 
they  couldn't  get  a  hundred  per  cent." 

"The  Lord  gives  more  than  that,"  said  Mrs.  Car- 
penter quietly.  "A  hundredfold  in  this  present 
world;  and  in  the  world  to  come,  eternal  life." 

"  I  never  could  get  right  hold  of  that  doctrine," 
said  Mrs.  Marble.  "Folks  talk  about  it, — but  I 
never  could  find  out  it  was  much  more  than  talk." 

"  Try  it,"  said  Mrs.  Carpenter.  "  Then  you'll 
know." 

"Maybe    I    shall,   if  you    stay   with   me    long 


JANE  STREET.  51 

enough.  I  wisht  I  was  rich,  and  I'd  do  better  for 
you  than  those  buttonholes.  I  think  I  can  do 
better  anyhow,"  said  the  little  woman,  brimming 
over  with  good  will.  "  Ha'  you  got  no  friends  at  all 
here?" 

Mrs.  Carpenter  hesitated;  and  then  said  "no." 
"  What  schools  are  there  in  this  neighbourhood  ?  " 
she  asked  then  immediately. 

"  Schools  ?    There's  the  public  school,  not  far  off." 

"The  public  school?  That  is  where  everybody 
goes  ?  " 

"Everybody  that  aint  rich,  and  some  that  be.  I 
don't  think  they  had  ought  to.  There's  enough 
without  'em.  Twelve  hundred  and  fifty  in  this 
school." 

"  Twelve  hundred  and  fifty  children  !  " 

"  All  that.  Enough,  aint  it  ?  But  they  say  the 
teaching's  first  rate.  You  want  to  send  Botha? 
You  can't  get  along  without  her  at  home,  can  you  ? 
Not  unless  you  can  get  somethin'  better  than  them 
buttonholes." 

"Mother,"  said  Eotha  when  Mrs.  Marble  had 
gone,  "you  wouldn't  send  me  to  that  school,  would 
you  ?  That's  where  all  the  poor"  children  go.  I 
don't  think  anybody  but  poor  people  live  all  about 
here." 

"  Then  it  is  a  proper  place  for  us.  What  are  we 
but  poor  people,  Rotha  ?  " 

"  But  mother,  we  were  not  poor  people  at  Med- 
wayville?  And  losing  our  farm  and  our  home  and 
all,  don't  make  any  difference." 


52  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"Don't  it?" 

"No,  mother,  not  in  us.  We  are  not  that  sort 
of  people.  You  wouldn't  send  me  to  such  a  school  ?  " 

"Take  care,  my  child.  'The  Lord  maketh  poor 
and  maketh  rich ; '  and  one  is  not  better  than  the 
other." 

"  One  is  better  off  than  the  other,"  said  Rotha. 
"Mother,  how  comes  aunt  Serena  to  be  rich  and 
you  to  be  poor  ?  " 

Mrs.  Carpenter  hesitated  and  seemed  to  choose 
her  words. 

"  It  was  because  of  the  way  she  married,"  she 
answered  at  last.  "  I  married  a  poor  man,  and  her 
marriage  brought  her  into  riches.  I  would  not 
exchange  with  her  for  all  the  world,  Rotha.  I  have 
had  much  the  best  of  it.  You  see  your  judgment  is 
not  worth  much." 

Rotha  was  not  satisfied  by  this  statement,  and 
as  time  wore  on  she  thought  she  had  less  and  less 
reason.  Mrs.  Marble  did  succeed  in  finding  some 
different  work  with  better  pay  for  her  lodger;  that 
is,  she  got  her  the  private  sewing  of  a  family  that 
paid  her  at  the  rate  of  seventy  five  cents  for  a 
gentleman's  shirt,  with  stitched  linen  bosom  and 
cuffs.  It  was  better  than  the  buttonhole  making; 
yet  even  so,  Mrs.  Carpenter  found  that  very  close 
and  diligent  application  was  necessary,  if  she  would 
pay  her  rent  and  pay  her  way.  She  could  hardly 
do  without  Rotha's  assistance.  If  she  tried,  with 
natural  motherly  feeling,  to  spare  her  child,  she 
made  her  fingers  rough  and  unfit  for  delicate 


JANE  STREET.  53 

work.  It  would  not  do.  Kotha's  hands  must  go 
into  the  hot  water,  and  handle  the  saucepan,  and 
the  broom,  and  the  box-iron.  Ironing  made  Mrs. 
Carpenter's  hands  tremble;  and  she  must  not  be 
hindered  in  her  work  or  made  to  do  it  slowly,  if 
she  and  her  child  were  to  live.  And  by  degrees 
Rotha  came  thus  to  be  very  busy  and  her  days 
well  filled  up.  All  errands  were  done  by  her; 
purchases  at  the  market  and  the  grocery  shop  and 
the  thread  and  needle  store.  The  care  of  the  two 
little  rooms  was  hers;  the  preparation  of  meals, 
the  clearing  of  tables.  It  was  better  than  to  be 
idle,  but  Rotha  sighed  over  it  and  Mrs.  Carpenter 
sometimes  did  the  same.  If  she  had  known  just 
what  a  public  school  is,  at  all  hazards  she  would 
not  have  kept  her  child  at  home;  Rotha  should 
have  had  so  much  education  as  she  could  get 
there.  But  Mrs.  Carpenter  had  a  vague  horror 
of  evil  contact  for  her  daughter,  who  had  lived 
until  now  in  so  pure  an  atmosphere  bodily  and 
mentally.  Better  anything  than  such  contact,  she 
thought;  and  she  had  no  time  to  examine  or  make 
inquiries. 

So  days  slipped  by,  as  days  do  where  people 
are  overwhelmingly  busy;  the  hope  and  intention 
of  making  a  change  kept  in  the  background  and 
virtually  nullified  by  the  daily  and  instant  pres- 
sure. Rotha  became  accustomed  to  the  new  part 
she  was  playing  in  life;  and  to  her  turn  of  mind, 
there  was  a  certain  satisfaction  in  the  activity 
of  it.  Mrs.  Carpenter  sat  by  the  window  and 


54  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

sewed,  from  morning  to  night.  Both  of  them  be- 
gan to  grow  pale  over  their  confined  life;  but  they 
were  caught  in  the  machinery  of  this  great,  rest- 
less, evil  world,  and  must  needs  go  on  with  it;  no 
extrication  was  possible.  One  needleful  of  thread 
after  another,  one  seam  after  another,  one  garment 
finished  and  another  begun;  that  was  the  routine 
of  Mrs.  Carpenter's  life,  as  of  so  many  others; 
and  Rotha  found  an  incessant  recurrence  of  meal- 
times, and  of  the  necessary  arrangements  before 
and  after.  The  only  break  and  change  was  en 
Sunday. 

Mrs.  Carpenter  suddenly  awoke  to  the  convic- 
tion, that  Rotha's  going  to  any  sort  of  school  was 
not  a  thing  at  present  within  the  range  of  vision. 
What  was  to  be  done  ?  She  thought  a  great  deal 
about  it. 

On  their  way  to  and  from  church  she  had  no- 
ticed a  small  bookstall,  closed  then  of  course, 
which  from  its  general  appearance  and  its  situa- 
tion promised  a  tariff  of  prices  fitted  for  very  shal- 
low pockets.  One  afternoon  she  resolutely  laid 
down  her  work  and  took  time  to  go  and  inspect 
it.  The  stock  was  small  enough,  and  poor;  in  the 
whole  she  found  nothing  that  could  serve  her 
purpose,  save  two  volumes  of  a  broken  set  of 
Rollin's  Ancient  History.  Being  a  broken  set,  the 
volumes  were  prized  at  a  mere  trifle,  and  Mrs. 
Carpenter  bought  them.  Rotha  had  been  with 
her,  and  as  soon  as  they  reached  home  subjected 
the  purchase  to  a  narrow  and  thorough  inspection. 


JANE  STREET.  55 

"  Mother,  these  are  only  Vol.  I.  and  Vol.  V." 
"Yes,  I  know  it." 
"  And  they  are  not  very  clean." 
"  I  know  that  too.     I  will  cover  them." 
"And  then,   what  are   you  going  to  do  with 
them  ?     Read  them  ?     You  have  no  time." 
"  I  am  going  to  make  you  read  them." 
"Well,  I  would  like  to  read  anything  new,"  said 
Rotha;  "but  what  shall  we  do  for  all  that  goes  be- 
tween No.  I.  and  No.  V.  ?  " 

"We  will  see.  Perhaps  we  can  pick  them  up 
1oo,  some  time." 

The  reading,  Rotha  found,  she  was  to  do  aloud, 
while  her  mother  sewed.  It  became  a  regular 
thing  every  afternoon,  all  the  time  there  was  to 
give  to  it;  and  Rotha  was  not  aware  what  school- 
ing her  mother  managed  to  get  out  of  the  reading. 
Mrs.  Carpenter  herself  had  been  well  educated; 
and  so  was  able  to  do  for  Rotha  what  was  possible 
in  the  circumstances.  It  is  astonishing  how  much 
may  be  accomplished  with  small  means,  if  there  is 
sufficient  power  of  will  at  work.  Not  a  fact  and 
not  a  name  in  their  reading,  but  it  was  made  the 
nucleus  of  a  discussion,  of  which  Rotha  only  knew 
that  it  was  very  interesting ;  Mrs.  Carpenter  knew 
that  she  was  teaching  her  daughter  history  and 
chronology.  Not  the  history  merely  of  the  people 
immediately  in  question,  but  the  history  of  the 
world  and  of  humanity.  For  without  being  a 
scholar  or  having  dead  languages  at  her  command, 
Mrs.  Carpenter  had  another  knowledge,  which 


56  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

gives  the  very  best  key  to  the  solution  of  many 
human  questions,  leads  to  the  most  clear  and  com- 
prehensive view  of  the  whole  human  drama  of  life 
and  gives  the  only  one  clue  to  guide  one  amidst 
the  confusions  of  history  and  to  its  ultimate  goal 
and  termination.  Namely,  the  knowledge  of  the 
Bible.  It  is  marvellous,  how  that  knowledge  sup- 
plies and  supplements  other  sorts.  So  Rotha  and 
her  mother,  at  every  step  they  made  in  their  read- 
ing, stopped  to  study  the  ground ;  looked  back  and 
forward,  traced  connections  of  things,  and  without 
any  parade  of  learning  got  deep  into  the  philosophy 
of  them. 

History  was  only  one  branch  of  the  studies  for 
which  Rollin  was  made  a  text-book.  Mrs.  Car- 
penter had  an  atlas  in  her  possession;  and  she  and 
Rotha  studied  geography.  Studied  it  thoroughly, 
too;  traced  and  fixed  the  relations  of  ancient  and 
modern;  learned  by  heart  and  not  by  head,  which 
is  always  the  best  way.  And  Mrs.  Carpenter  taxed 
her  memory  to  enable  her  as  far  as  practicable  to 
indoctrinate  Rotha  in  the  mysteries  and  delights 
of  physical  geography,  which  the  girl  took  as  she 
would  the  details  of  a  story.  Culture  and  the 
arts  and  industries  came  in  for  a  share  of  atten- 
tion ;  but  here  Mrs.  Carpenter's  knowledge  reached 
not  far.  Far  enough  to  excite  Rotha's  curiosity 
very  much,  which  of  itself  was  one  good  thing. 
That  indeed  may  be  said  to  have  been  one  gen- 
eral result  and  fruit  of  this  peculiar  method  of 
instruction. 


JANE  STREET.  57 

A  grammar  was  not  among  Mrs.  Carpenter's  few 
possessions,  nor  found  on  the  shelves  of  the  book- 
stall above-mentioned.  Here  too  she  sought  to 
make  memory  supply  the  place  of  printed  words. 
Rollin  served  as  a  text-book  again.  Rotha  learned 
the  parts  of  speech,  and  their  distinctions  and  in- 
flexions ;  also,  as  far  as  her  mother  could  recollect 
them,  the  rules  of  syntax.  Against  all  this  branch 
of  study  she  revolted,  as  unintelligible.  Writing 
compositions  went  better;  but  for  the  mechanical 
part  of  this  exercise  Mrs.  Carpenter  had  no  leisure. 
She  did  set  Rotha  a  copy  now  and  then;  but 
writing  and  arithmetic  for  the  most  part  got  the 
go-by.  What  Mrs.  Carpenter  did  she  must  do  with 
her  fingers  plying  the  needle  and  her  eyes  on  her 
work. 

It  helped  them  both,  all  this  learning  and  teach- 
ing; reading  and  talking.  It  saved  their  life  from 
being  a  dead  monotony,  and  their  minds  from 
vegetating;  and  diverted  them  from  sorrowful 
regrets  and  recollections.  Life  was  quite  active 
and  stirring  in  the  little  rooms  where  they  lived. 
Nevertheless,  their  physical  nature  did  not  thrive 
so  well  as  the  mental.  Rotha  was  growing  fast, 
and  shooting  up  slender  and  pale,  living  too  housed 
a  life;  and  her  mother  began  to  lose  freshness  and 
to  grow  thin  with  too  constant  application.  As  the 
winter  passed  away,  and  warm  weather  opened  the 
buds  of  the  trees  which  in  some  places  graced  the 
city,  these  human  plants  seemed  to  wither  more 
and  more. 


58  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  0  mother,"  said  Botha,  standing  at  the  window 
one  day  in  the  late  spring,  "I  think  the  city  is 
just  horrid! " 

"Never  mind,  my  child.  We  have  a  comfortable 
home,  and  a  great  deal  to  be  thankful  for." 

"If  I  could  only  see  the  butterflies  in  the  fields 
again ! "  sighed  Rotha.  Her  mother  echoed  the 
sigh,  but  this  time  said  nothing. 

"  And  I  would  like  a  good  big  tumbler  of  real 
milk,  and  some  strawberries,  and  some  of  your 
bread  and  butter,  mother." 

"Yes,  my  child." 

"  Mother,  how  comes  it  that  aunt  Serena  is  rich, 
and  you  and  I  are  so  poor  ?  " 

"You  have  asked  me  that  before." 

"  But  you  didn't  tell  me." 

"  I  told  you,  it  was  in  consequence  of  the  differ- 
ent marriages  we  made." 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  you  were  not  poor  before 
you  married  father,  were  you  ?  " 

"No." 

"Then  that  is  what  I  mean.  What  is  become 
of  it  ?  Where  is  your  part  ?  " 

"Nowhere,  dear." 

"  What  became  of  it  then,  mother  ?  " 

"  I  never  had  it,  Rotha.  You  had  better  get 
your  book  and  read.  That  would  be  wiser  than 
asking  useless  questions." 

"But  why  didn't  you  have  it,  mother?  Did 
aunt  Serena — did  your  sister — get  it  all  ?  " 

"  Get  your  book,  Rotha." 


JANE  STREET.  59 

"Mother,  please  tell  me.  I  shall  know  the  an- 
swer if  you  do  not  tell  me." 

"Your  aunt  had  it  all,"  Mrs.  Carpenter  said  very 
quietly. 

"Why?" 

"Your  grandfather  thought  there  were  good 
reasons." 

"  Were  there,  mother?" 

"I  do  not  think  so.  But  let  it  be,  Rotha,  and 
never  mention  this  subject  to  me  again.  Different 
people  have  different  ways  of  looking  at  the  same 
thing ;  and  people  are  often  very  honestly  mistaken. 
You  must  not  judge  others  by  yourself." 

"Mother,  I  think  that  was  very  unjust,"  said 
Rotha,  in  immediate  disregard  of  this  precept. 

"  You  must  not  think  it  was  meant  so." 

"But,  mother,  if  a  wrong  thing  is  honestly  meant, 
does  that  make  it  right  ?  " 

"There  is  but  one  rule  of  right  and  wrong;  it  is 
God's  rule." 

"  Then  what  difference  does  it  make,  whether  it 
was  '  honestly  meant '  or  no  ?  " 

"  A  good  deal,  I  should  say.  Don't  you  think  it 
does?" 

"I  do  not  believe  aunt  Serena  means  it  honestly, 
though.  If  she  was  a  good  woman,  she  wouldn't 
keep  what  belongs  to  you.  She  must  know  it  is 
wrong ! " 

"  Rotha,  you  are  paining  rne,"  said  Mrs.  Carpen- 
ter, the  tears  springing  to  her  eyes.  "This  is  very 
foolish  talk,  and  very  improper.  Get  your  book." 


60  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  I  don't  wonder  you  don't  want  to  go  and  see 
her ! "  said  Rotha  indignantly  as  she  obeyed  the 
order.  "  O  mother  !  if  I  could  just  once  roll  in  the 
grass  again ! " 

At  this  moment  came  a  cry  from  the  street — 

"  Straw — berrees  /  " 

"What's  that?"  exclaimed  Rotha  springing  to 
the  window.  "Mother,  it's  a  woman  with  a  basket 
full  of  something  red.  Strawberries!  it's  straw- 
berries ! " 

The  accent  of  this  word  went  to  the  mother's 
heart. 

"  It's  early  yet,"  she  said.  "  They  will  be  very 
dear.  By  and  by  they  will  be  plenty  and  cheaper." 

"  Strawberries !  "  repeated  Rotha,  following  the 
woman  with  her  eyes.  "  Mother,  I  think  I  do  hate 
New  York.  The  sight  of  those  strawberries  makes 
me  wild.  I  want  Carlo,  and  the  ducks,  and  my 
old  pussy  cat,  and  the  garden; — and  Oh,  I  want 
father!—" 

The  natural  conclusion  to  this  burst  was  a  pas- 
sion of  weeping.  Mrs.  Carpenter  was  fain  to  lay 
down  her  work,  and  put  her  arms  round  the  child, 
and  shed  some  tears  with  her;  though  even  as  they 
fell  she  was  trying  to  soothe  Rotha  into  patience 
and  self-command.  Two  virtues  of  which  as  yet 
the  girl  knew  nothing,  except  that  her  mother  was 
a  very  lovely  and  constant  exemplification  of  them. 
Xobody  ever  expected  either  from  Rotha;  although 
this  was  the  first  violent  expression  of  grief  and 
longing  that  her  mother  had  seen  since  their  re- 


JANE  STREET.  61 

moval  to  New  York,  and  it  took  her  by  surprise. 
Rotha  had  seemed  to  acquiesce  with  tolerable  ease 
in  the  new  conditions  of  things;  and  this  was 
Mrs.  Carpenter's  first  notification  that  under  all 
the  outside  calm  there  lay  a  power  of  wish  and 
pain.  They  wept  together  for  a  while,  the  mother 
and  child,  which  was  a  sort  of  relief  to  both  of 
them. 

"  Mother,"  said  Rotha,  as  she  dried  her  tears  and 
struggled  to  prevent  more  coming, — "  I  could  bear 
it,  only  that  I  don't  see  any  end  to  it." 

"Well,  my  child?  what  then?"  said  the  mother 
tenderly. 

"  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could  bear  this  always." 

"  There  might  be  much  worse,  Rotha." 

"That  don't  make  this  one  bit  better,  mother. 
It  makes  it  harder." 

"  We  must  trust  God." 

"  For  what  ?     I  don't  see." 

"Trust  him,  that  he  will  keep  his  promises. 
I  do." 

"  What  promises  ?  " 

"  He  has  said,  that  none  of  them  that  trust  in 
him  shall  be  desolate." 

"  But  '  not  desolate ' !  That  is  not  enough,"  said. 
Rotha.  "1  want  more  than  that.  I  want  to  be 
happy ;  and  I  want  to  be  comfortable." 

"  Are  you  not  comfortable,  my  child  ?  " 

"  No,  mother,"  Rotha  said  with  a  sob. 

"What  do  you  want?"  Mrs.  Carpenter  spoke 
•with  a  gentle  soft  accent,  which  half  soothed,  half 


62  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

reproached  Rotha,  though  she  did  not  mean  any 
reproach.  Rotha,  nevertheless  went  on. 

"  I  want  nearly  everything,  mother !  everything 
that  we  haven't  got." 

"  It  would  not  make  you  happy,  if  you  had  it." 

"  Why  not  ?     Why  wouldn't  it  ?  " 

"Because  nothing  of  that  sort  can.  There  is 
only  one  thing  that  makes  people  happy." 

"I  know;  you  mean  religion.  But  I  am  not 
religious.  And  if  I  was  happy,  mother,  I  should 
want  those  other  things  too." 

"If  you  were  happy — you  would  be  happy," 
Mrs.  Carpenter  said  with  a  slight  smile. 

"That  would  not  hinder  my  wanting  other 
things.  I  should  want,  as  I  do  now,  nice  dresses, 
and  a  nice  house,  and  books,  and  not  to  have  to 
cook  and  wash  dishes,  and  to  take  a  ride  sometimes 
and  a  walk  sometimes — not  a  walk  to  market — I 
want  all  that,  mother." 

"I  would  give  it  you  if  I  could,  Rotha.  If  I  had 
it  and  did  not  give  it  to  you,  you  would  know  that 
I  had  some  very  good  reason." 

"  I  might  think  you  were  mistaken,"  said  Rotha. 

"  We  cannot  think  that  of  the  only  wise  God," 
Mrs.  Carpenter  said  with  that  same  faint,  sweet 
smile  again ;  "  so  we  must  fall  back  upon  the  other 
alternative." 

Rotha  was  silenced. 

"  We  know  that  he  loves  us,  dear ;  and  '  they  that 
trust  in  the  Lord  shall  not  want  any  good  thing.' 
As  soon  as  it  would  be  good  for  us,  if  that  time 


JANE  STREET.  63 

ever  comes,  we  shall  have  it.  As  for  me,  if  you 
were  only  one  of  those  that  trust  in  him,  I  should 
hardly  have  a  wish  left." 

Botha  dried  her  tears  and  went  at  her  work. 
But  the  summer,  as  the  days  passed,  was  a  trial 
to  both  of  them.  Accustomed  to  sweet  country 
air  and  free  motion  about  the  farm,  the  closeness, 
the  heat,  the  impurities,  and  the  confinement  of 
the  city  were  extremely  hard  to  bear.  They  made 
it  also  very  difficult  to  work.  Often  it  seemed  to 
Mrs.  Carpenter,  unused  to  such  a  sedentary  life 
and  close  bending  over  her  needle,  that  she  must 
stop  and  wait  till  it  grew  cooler,  or  till  she  herself 
felt  a  little  refreshed.  But  the  necessities  of  living 
drove  her  on,  as  they  drive  so  many,  pitilessly. 
She  could  not  intermit  her  work.  Rents  were  due 
just  the  same  in  summer  as  in  winter,  and  meat 
and  bread  were  no  cheaper.  She  grew  very  thin 
and  pale;  and  Rotha  too,  though  in  a  far  less  de- 
gree, shewed  the  wilting  and  withering  effect  of 
the  life  they  led.  Rarely  a  walk  could  be  had; 
the  streets  were  hot  and  disagreeable;  and  Mrs. 
Carpenter  could  but  now  and  then  dare  to  spend 
twenty  cents  for  car  hire  to  take  her  and  Rotha 
to  the  Park  and  back  again.  The  heats  of  July 
were  very  hard  to  bear;  the  heats  of  August  were 
more  oppressive  still;  and  when  September  came 
with  its  enervating  moist,  muggy,  warm  days, 
Mrs.  Carpenter  could  scarcely  keep  her  place  and 
her  work  at  her  window.  All  day  she  could  not. 
She  was  obliged  to  stop  and  lie  by.  Appetite 


64  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

failed,  meals  were  not  enticing;  and  on  the  whole, 
Mrs.  Marble  was  not  at  all  satisfied  with  the  con 
dition  of  either  of  her  lodgers. 

The  cooler  weather  and  then  the  frosts  wrought 
some  amendment.  Yet  all  the  autumn  did  not 
put  them  back  where  the  spring  had  found  them ; 
and  late  in  November  Mrs.  Carpenter  took  a  cold 
which  she  could  not  immediately  get  rid  of.  A 
bad  cough  set  in ;  strength  rather  failed  than  grew ; 
and  the  thin  hands  which  were  so  unceasingly 
busy  with  their  work,  became  more  and  more 
transparently  thin.  Mrs.  Carpenter  needed  rest; 
she  knew  it;  and  the  thought  came  to  her  that 
it  might  be  duty,  and  even  it  might  be  necessity, 
to  apply  to  her  sister  for  help.  Surely  it  could 
not  be  refused  ? 

She  was  often  busy  with  this  thought. 

One  day  she  had  undertaken  a  longer  walk  than 
usual,  to  carry  home  some  articles  of  fine  sewing 
that  she  had  finished.  She  would  not  send  Kotha 
so  far  alone,  but  she  took  her  along  for  company 
and  for  the  air  and  exercise.  Her  way  led  her 
into  the  finer  built  part  of  the  city.  Coming  down 
Broadway,  she  was  stopped  a  minute  by  a  little 
crowd  on  the  sidewalk,  just  as  a  carriage  drew  up 
and  a  lady  with  a  young  girl  stepped  out  of  it 
and  went  into  Tiffany's;  crossing  the  path  of  Mrs. 
Carpenter  and  Rotha.  The  lady  she  recognized 
as  her  own  sister. 

"  Mother,"  said  Rotha,  as  they  presently  went  on 
their  way  again,  "isn't  that  a  handsome  carriage?" 


JANE  STREET.  65 

"Very." 

"  What  is  the  coachman  dressed  so  for  ?  " 

"That  is  what  they  call  a  livery." 

"Well,  what  is  it?  He  has  top  boots  and  a 
gold  band  round  his  hat.  What  for?  I  see  a 
great  many  coachmen  and  footmen  dressed  up  so 
or  some  other  way.  What  is  the  use  of  it  ?  " 

"  No  use,  that  I  know." 

"Then  what  is  it  for?" 

"I  suppose  they  think  it  looks  well." 

"So  it  does.  But  how  rich  people  must  be, 
mother,  when  their  servants  can  dress  handsomer 
than  we  ever  could.  And  their  own  dresses!  Did 
you  see  the  train  of  that  lady's  dress  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Beautiful  black  silk,  ever  so  much  of  it,  sweep- 
ing over  the  sidewalk.  She  did  not  even  lift  it  up, 
as  if  she  cared  whether  it  went  into  the  dirt  or 
not." 

"  I  suppose  she  did  not  care,"  said  Mrs.  Carpen- 
ter mechanically,  like  a  person  who  is  not  giving 
much  thought  to  her  answers. 

"  Then  she  must  be  very  rich  indeed.  I  suppose, 
mother,  her  train  would  make  you  a  whole  nice 
dress." 

"  Hardly  so  much  of  it  as  that,"  said  Mrs. 
Carpenter. 

"No,  no;  I  mean  the  cost  of  it.  Mother,  I 
wonder  if  it  is  right,  for  that  woman  to  trail  so 
much  silk  on  the  ground,  and  you  not  to  be  able 
to  get  yourself  one  good  dress  ?  " 


66  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  It  makes  no  difference  in  my  finances,  whether 
she  trails  it  or  not." 

"  No,  but  it  ought." 

"  How  should  it  ?  " 

Rotha  worked  awhile  at  this  problem — in  silence. 

"  Mother,  if  nobody  used  what  he  didn't  want, 
don't  you  think  there  would  be  enough  for  the 
people  who  do  want  ?  You  know  what  I  mean  ?  " 

"  I  know  what  you  mean.  But  how  should  the 
surplus  get  to  the  people  who  want  it  ?  " 

"  Why  ! — that's  very  simple." 

"  Not  so  simple  as  you  think." 

"Mother,  that  is  the  way  people  did  in  the 
second  chapter  of  Acts,  that  we  were  reading 
yesterday.  Nobody  said  that  anything  he  had 
was  his  own." 

"  That  was  when  everybody  was  full  of  the  love 
of  Christ.  I  grant  you,  Rotha,  that  makes  things 
easy.  My  child,  let  us  take  care  we  act  on  that 
principle." 

"We  have  nothing  to  give,"  said  Rotha.  "Moth- 
er, how  that  girl  was  dressed  too,  that  came  out  of 
that  same  carriage.  Did  you  see  her  ?  " 

"Hardly." 

"  She  was  about  as  old  as  I  am,  I  guess.  Mother, 
she  had  a  feather  in  her  hat  and  a  beautiful  little 
muff,  arid  a  silk  frock  too,  though  there  was  110 
train  to  it.  Her  silk  was  red — dark  red,"  Rotha 
added  with  a  sigh. 

Mrs.  Carpenter  had  been  struck  and  moved,  as 
well  as  her  daughter,  by  the  appearance  of  the 


JANE  STREET.  67 

figures  in  question,  though,  as  she  said,  she  had 
scarce  seen  more  than  one  of  them.  But  her 
thoughts  were  in  a  different  channel. 

When  she  got  home,  contrary  to  all  her  wont, 
Mrs.  Carpenter  sat  down  and  put  her  head  in  her 
hands,  instead  of  going  to  work.  She  said  she 
was  a  little  tired,  which  was  very  true;  but  the 
real  reason  was  a  depression  and  at  the  same 
time  a  perturbation  of  mind  which  would  not  let 
her  work.  She  had  been  several  times  lately  en- 
gaged with  the  thought,  that  it  might  be  better, 
that  it  might  be  her  duty,  to  make  herself  known 
to  her  sister.  She  felt  that  her  strength  lately  had 
been  decreasing;  it  had  been  with  much  difficulty 
that  she  accomplished  her  full  tale  of  work ;  help, 
even  a  little,  would  be  very  grateful,  and  a  friend 
for  Rotha  might  be  of  the  greatest  importance. 
It  was  over  with  those  thoughts.  That  one 
glimpse  of  her  sister  as  she  swept  past,  had 
shewn  her  the  utter  futility  of  such  an  appeal  as 
she  had  thought  of  making.  There  was  some- 
thing in  the  whole  air  and  style  of  the  rich 
woman  which  convinced  Mrs.  Carpenter  that  she 
would  not  patiently  hear  of  poor  relations  in  her 
neighbourhood;  and  that  help  given,  even  if  she 
gave  it,  would  be  so  given  that  it  would  be  easier 
to  do  without  it  than  to  accept  it.  She  was  thrown 
back  upon  herself;  and  the  check  and  the  disap- 
pointment shewed  how  much,  secretly  she  had 
been  staying  herself  upon  this  hope  which  had 
failed  her. 


68  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

She  said  nothing  to  her  daughter,  and  Eotha 
never  knew  what  that  encounter  had  been.  But 
a  few  days  later,  finding  herself  still  not  gaining 
strength,  and  catching  at  any  thread  of  hope  or 
help,  Mrs.  Carpenter  took  another  long  walk  and 
delivered  at  its  place  of  address  the  letter  which 
her  English  guest  had  left  her.  She  hardly  ex- 
pected ever  to  hear  anything  from  it  again ;  and  in 
fact  it  was  long  before  she  did  hear  either  of  the 
letter  or  of  its  writer. 

The  months  of  winter  went  somewhat  painfully 
along.  Mrs.  Carpenter's  health  did  not  mend,  and 
the  constant  sewing  became  more  and  more  diffi- 
cult to  bear.  Mrs.  Carpenter  now  more  frequently 
went  out  with  her  work  herself;  leaving  Rotha  to 
make  up  the  lost  time  by  doing  some  of  the  plainer 
seams,  for  which  she  was  quite  competent 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A  VISITER. 

ONE  cold  afternoon  in  the  latter  part  of  January, 
a  stranger  came  to  Mrs.  Marble's  door  and 
begged  for  a  few  minutes'  interview.  He  did  not 
make  it  longer;  but  after  a  very  brief  conversation 
on  religious  matters,  and  giving  her  a  tract  or  two, 
inquired  if  there  was  anybody  else  in  the  house  ? 

"Lodgers,"  said  Mrs.  Marble.  "They've  got  the 
second  floor.  A  woman  and  a  girl." 

"  What  sort  of  people  ?  "  v  » 

"  Well,  I  should  say  they  were  an  uncommon 
sort.  Your  sort,  I  guess.  Religious.  I  mean  the 
mother  is.  I  reckon  the  little  one  haint  anything 
o'  that  kind  about  her." 

"  Then  they  pay  their  rent,  I  suppose  ?  " 
"As  regular  as  clockwork.     'Taint  always  easy, 
I  know ;  but  it  comes  up  to  the  day.     I  don't  be- 
lieve much  in  the  sort  o'  religion  that  don't  pay 
debts." 

"Nor  I;  but  sometimes,  you  know,  the  paying  is 
not  only  difficult  but  impossible.  Why  is  it  diffi- 
cult in  this  case  ?  " 

"  Don't  ask  me  !     Because  another  sort  of  relig- 
(69) 


70  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

ious  folk,  that  go  to  church  regular  enough  and 
say  their  prayers,  won't  pay  honest  wages  for 
honest  work.  How  is  a  woman  to  live,  that  can't 
get  more  than  a  third  or  a  quarter  the  value  o' 
what  she  does?  So  they  don't  live;  they  die;  and 
that's  how  it's  goin'  to  be  here." 

A  tear  was  glittering  in  Mrs.  Marble's  honest 
eyes,  while  at  the  same  time  she  bit  off  her  words 
as  if  they  had  been  snap  gingerbread. 

"  Is  it  so  bad  as  that  ?  "  asked  the  visiter. 

"Well,  I  don'  know  if  you  ought  to  call  it,  'bad,'" 
said  Mrs.  Marble  with  a  compound  expression. 
"  When  livin'  aint  livin'  no  longer,  then  dyin'  aint 
exactly  dyin'.  'Taint  the  worst  thing,  anyhow;  if 
it  warnt  for  the  folk  left  behind.  If  I  was  as  ready 
as  she  is,  I  wouldn't  mind  goin',  I  guess.  I  s'pose 
she  thinks  of  her  child  some." 

"  Would  they  receive  a  visit  from  me  ?  " 

"I  don'  know;  but  they  don't  have  many.  So 
long  as  they've  been  here,  and  that's  more'n  a  year 
now,  there  aint  a  livin'  soul  as  has  called  to  ask 
after  'em.  I  guess  they'd  receive  most  anybody 
that  come  with  a  friend's  face.  Shall  I  ask  'em  ?  " 

"Not  that,  but  if  they  will  see  me.  I  shall  be 
much  obliged." 

Mrs.  Marble  laid  down  her  work  and  tripped  up 
stairs. 

"  Kotha,"  she  said  putting  her  head  inside  the 
door,  "here's  somebody  to  see  you." 

The  girl  started  up  and  a  colour  came  into  her 
face,  as  she  eagerly  asked,  "  Who  ?  " 


A   VlSITER.  71 

"  I  don't  know  him  from  Adam.  He's  a  sort  of 
a  missionary;  they  come  round  once  in  a  while; 
and  he  wants  to  see  you." 

"  Mother's  gone  out,"  said  Kotha,  her  colour  fad- 
ing as  quick  as  it  had  risen. 

"May  he  come  and  see  you?  He's  a  nice  look- 
in'  feller." 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Rotha.  "I  don't  want  to  see 
any  missionary." 

"  0  well !  it  won't  hurt  you  to  see  this  one,  I 
guess." 

A  few  minutes  after  came  a  tap  at  the  door,  and 
Rotha  with  a  mingling  of  unwillingness  and  curi- 
osity, opened  it.  What  she  saw  was  not  exactly 
what  she  had  expected;  curiosity  grew  and  un- 
willingness abated.  She  asked  the  stranger  in 
with  tolerable  civility.  He  was  nice  looking,  she 
confessed  to  herself,  and  very  nicely  dressed  \  not 
at  all  the  rubbishy  exterior  which  Rotha  somehow 
associated  with  her  idea  of  missionaries.  He  came 
in  and  sat  down,  quite  like  an  ordinary  man ;  which 
was  soothing. 

"  Mother  is  out,"  Rotha  announced  shortly. 

"  It  is  so  much  the  kinder  of  you  to  let  me  come 
in." 

"I  was'not  thinking  of  kindness,"  said  Rotha. 

"  No  ?     Of  what  then  ? 

"Nothing  in  particular.  You  do  not  want  kind 
ness." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.     Everybody  wants  it." 

"Not  kindness/row  everybody  then." 


72  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"I  do." 

"  But  some  people  can  do  without  it." 

"  Can  they  ?     What  sort  of  people  ?  " 

"  Why,  a  great  many  people.  Those  that  have 
all  they  want  already." 

"  I  never  saw  any  of  that  sort  of  people,"  said  the 
stranger  gravely.  "  Pray,  did  you  ?  " 

"I  thought  I  had." 

"And  you  thought  I  was  one  of  them  ?  " 

"  I  believe  so." 

"You  were  mistaken  in  me.  Probably  you  were 
mistaken  also  in  the  other  instances.  Perhaps  you 
were  thinking  of  the  people  who  have  all  that 
money  can  buy  ?  " 

"  Perhaps,"  Rotha  assented. 

"  Do  you  think  money  can  buy  all  things  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Rotha,  beginning  to  recover  her 
usual  composure;  "but  the  people  who  have  all 
that  money  can  buy,  can  do  without  the  other 
things." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  the  '  other  things '  ?  " 

Rotha  did  not  answer. 

"  I  suppose  kindness  is  one  of  them,  as  we  started 
from  that." 

Rotha  was  still  silent. 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  afford  to  do  without 
kindness  ?  " 

"  If  I  had  money  enough,"  Rotha  said  bluntly. 

"And  what  would  you  buy  with  money,  that 
would  be  better  ?  " 

"0    plenty!"    said    Rotha.     "Yes,    indeed!     I 


A   VlSITER.  73 

would  stop  mother's  working;  aud  I  would  buy 
our  old  home,  and  we  would  go  away  from  this 
place  and  never  come  back  to  it.  I  would  have 
somebody  to  do  the  work  that  I  do,  too;  and  I 
would  have  a  garden,  and  plenty  of  flowers,  and 
plenty  of  everything." 

"  And  live  without  friends  ?  " 

"  We  always  did,"  said  Rotha.  "  We  never  had 
friends.  O  friends ! — everybody  in  the  village  and 
in  the  country  was  a  friend;  but  you  know  what 
I  mean;  nobody  that  we  cared  for." 

"Then  you  have  no  friends  here  in  New  York?" 

"  No." 

"  I  should  think  you  would  have  stayed  where, 
as  you  say,  everybody  was  a  friend." 

"Yes,  but  we  couldn't." 

"You  said,  you  would  if  you  could  stop  your 
mother's  working.  Do  you  think  she  would  like 
that  ? " 

"0  she's  tired  to  death!"  said  Rotha;  and  her 
eyes  reddened  in  a  way  that  shewed  there  were  at 
least  two  sides  to  her  character.  "  She  is  not  strong 
at  all,  and  she  wants  rest.  Of  course  she  would 
like  it.  Not  to  have  to  do  any  more  than  she  likes, 
I  mean." 

"  Then  perhaps  she  would  not  choose  to  take 
some  work  I  was  thinking  to  offer  her.  Or  per- 
haps you  would  not  take  it  ?  "  he  added  smiling. 

"We  must  take  it,"  said  Rotha,  "if  we  can  get 
it.  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  A  set  of  shirts.     A  dozen." 


74  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"Mother  gets  seventy  five  cents  a  piece,  if  they 
are  tucked  and  stitched." 

"That  is  not  my  price,  however.  I  like  ray 
work  particularly  done,  and  I  -give  two  dollars  a 
piece." 

"  Two  dollars  for  one  shirt  ?  "  inquired  Botha. 

"That  is  my  meaning.  Do  you  think  your 
mother  will  take  them?" 

For  all  answer  the  girl  clapped  her  two  hands 
together. 

"  Then  you  are  not  a  master  tailor  ?  "  she  asked. 

"No."  * 

"  I  thought  maybe  you  were.  I  don't  like  them. 
What  are  you,  please  ?  " 

"  If  I  should  propose  myself  as  a  friend,  would 
you  allow  it  ?  " 

Is  this  a  "kindness"?  was  the  suspicion  that 
instantly  darted  into  Rotha's  mind.  The  visiter 
saw  it  in  her  face,  and  could  have  smiled;  took 
care  to  do  no  such  thing. 

"  That  is  a  question  for  mother  to  answer,"  she 
said  coolly. 

"When  it  is  put  to  her.  I  put  the  question 
to  you." 

"Do  you  mean,  that  you  are  talking  of  being 
a  friend  to  me  ?  " 

"  Is  that  too  bold  a  proposition  ?  " 

"  No — but  it  cannot  be  true." 

"Why  not?" 

"  You  cannot  want  me  for  a  friend.  You  do  not 
know  me  a  bit." 


A  VlSITER.  75 

"  Pardon  me.  And  my  proposal  was,  that  I 
should  be  a  friend  to  you" 

"  I  always  thought  there  were  two  sides  to  a 
friendship." 

"  True ;  and  in  time,  perhaps,  when  you  come 
to  know  me  as  well  as  I  know  you,  perhaps  you 
will  be  my  friend  as  well." 

"  How  should  you  know  me  ?  "  said  Rotha  quickly. 

"People's  thoughts  and  habits  of  feeling  have 
a  way  of  writing  themselves  somehow  in  their 
faces,  and  voices,  and  movements.  Did  you  know 
that?" 

"  No—"  Rotha  said  doubtfully. 

"  They  do." 

"  But  you  don't  know  me." 

"Will  you  put  it  to  the  proof?  But  do  you 
like  to  hear  the  truth  spoken  about  yourself?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     I  never  tried." 

"Shall  I  try  you?  I  think  I  see  before  me 
a  person  who  likes  to  have  her  own  way — and 
has  it." 

"  You  are  wrong  there,"  said  Rotha.  "  If  I  had 
my  own  way,  1  should  not  be  doing  what  I  am 
doing;  no  indeed!  I  should  be  going  to  school." 

"  I  did  not  mean  that  your  will  could  get  the 
better  of  all  circumstances;  only  of  the  will  of 
other  people.  How  is  that  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  everybody  likes  to  have  his  own  way," 
said  Rotha  in  defence. 

"  Probably ;  but  not  every  one  gets  it.  Then, 
when  upon  occasion  your  will  is  crossed,  whether 


76  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

by  persons  or  circumstances,  you  do  not  take  it 
very  patiently." 

"  Does  anybody  ?  " 

"  Some  people.  But  on  these  occasions  you  are 
apt  to  shew  your  displeasure  impatiently — some- 
times violently." 

"How  do  you  know?"  said  Rotha  wonderingly. 
"  You  cannot  see  that  in  my  face  now  ?  " 

And  she  began  curiously  to  examine  the  face 
opposite  to  her,  to  see  if  it  too  had  any  disclosures 
to  make.  He  smiled. 

"Another  thing, — "  he  went  on.  "You  have 
never  yet  learned  to  care  for  others  more  than  for 
yourself." 

"Does  anybody?"  said  Rotha. 

" How  is  it  with  your  mother?  " 

"  Mother  ? —  But  then,  mother  and  I  are  very 
different" 

"  Did  I  not  intimate  that  ?  " 

"  But  I  mean  I  am  naturally  different  from  her. 
It  is  not  only  because  she  is  a  Christian." 

"  Why  are  you  not  a  Christian  too  ?  " 

Rotha  hesitated.  Her  interlocutor  was  certainly 
a  great  stranger;  and  as  certainly  she  had  not  found 
it  possible  to  read  his  face ;  notwithstanding,  two 
effects  had  resulted  from  the  interview  thus  far;  she 
believed  in  him,  and  he  was  somewhat  imposing  to 
her.  Dress  and  manner  might  have  a  little  to  do 
with  this ;  poor  Rotha  had  rarely  in  her  short  life 
spoken  to  any  one  who  had  the  polish  of  manner 
that  belongs  to  good  breeding  and  the  habit  of 


A   VlSITER.  77 

society ;  but  that  was  not  the  whole.  She  felt  the 
security  and  the  grace  with  which  every  word  was 
said,  and  she  trusted  his  face.  At  the  same  time 
she  rebelled  against  the  slight  awe  he  inspired, 
and  was  a  little  afraid  of  some  lurking  "kindness" 
under  all  this  extraordinary  interest  and  affability. 
Her  answer  was  delayed  and  then  came  somewhat 
defiantly. 

"  I  never  wanted  to  be  a  Christian." 

"  That  answer  has  the  merit  of  truth,"  said  her 
visiter  calmly.  "  You  have  mentioned  the  precise 
reason  that  keeps  people  out  of  the  kingdom  of 
heaven.  'Ye  will  not  come  unto  me,  that  ye  might 
have  life,'  the  Lord  said  to  some  of  them  when  he 
was  upon  earth.  '  When  they  shall  see  him,  there 
is  no  beauty  that  they  should  desire  him.'" 

"  Well,  I  cannot  help  that,"  said  Eotha. 

"No, — "  said  her  visiter  slowly,  "you  cannot  help 
that;  but  it  does^ot  excuse  you." 

"  Why,  how  can  I  be  a  Christian,  when  I  dont 
want  to  ?  " 

"How  can  you  do  anything  else  that  you  do  not 
want  to  do  ?  Duty  remains  duty,  does  it  not  ?  " 

"  But  religion  is  not  outside  work." 

"No." 

"Mother  says,  it  is  the  love  of  God.  How  can  I 
make  myself  love  him  ?  " 

"  Poor  child  !  "  said  her  visiter.  "  When  you  are 
in  earnest  about  that  question  it  will  not  be  diffi- 
cult to  find  the  answer."  He  rose  up.  "  Then  I 
may  send  the  shirts  I  spoke  of?" 


78  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"Yes,"  said  Kotha;  "but  I  don't  know  about 
the  price.  Mother  does  not  want  anything  but 
the  proper  pay;  and  she  does  all  her  work  par- 
ticularly." 

"  Are  you  afraid  I  shall  give  her  too  much?" 

"  She  does  not  want  too  much." 

"  I  will  arrange  that  with  her.  Stay, — we  have 
not  been  introduced  to  each  other.  You  may  call 
me  Mr.  Digby ;  what  may  I  call  you  ?  " 

"Kotha  Carpenter." 

"Good  morning,  Kotha,"  said  the  gentleman, 
offering  his  hand.  Kotha  shyly  took  it,  and  he 
went  away. 

Half  an  hour  afterwards,  Mrs.  Carpenter  came 
home.  She  came  slowly  up  the  short  flight  of 
stairs,  and  sat  down  by  her  fireside  as  if  she  was 
tired.  She  was  pale,  and  she  coughed  now  and 
then. 

"  Mother,"  began  Rotha,  full  of  the  new  event, 
"somebody  has  been  here  since  you  have  been 
away." 

"A  messenger  from  Mr.  Farquharson?  I  shall 
have  the  things  done  to-morrow,  I  hope." 

"No  messenger  at  all,  and  no  tailor,  nor  any 
such  horrid  person.  Mother,  what  is  a  'gentle- 
man'?" 

"  What  makes  you  ask  ?  " 

"  Because  Mrs.  Marble  said  this  man  was  a  gen- 
tleman. He's  a  missionary.  Do  you  know  what 
a  '  city  missionary '  means,  mother  ?  " 

"  Yes,  in  general." 


A   VlSITER.  79 

"  The  same  as  a  foreign  missionary,  only  he  does 
not  go  out  of  the  country  ?  " 

"  He  does  his  work  in  the  city." 

"  Bat  there  are  no  heathen  in  New  York." 

"  There  are  worse." 

"  Worse  ?  what  can  be  worse  ?  " 

"  It  is  worse  to  see  the  light  and  refuse  it,  than 
never  to  have  had  the  choice." 

"  Then  I  should  think  it  Avould  be  better  not  to 
send  missionaries  to  the  heathen." 

"Rotha,  take  my  bonnet  and  cloak,  dear,  and 
put  them  away;  and  make  me  some  tea,  will 
you?" 

"Why  mother,  it  is  not  tea-time  yet." 

"No  matter;  I  am  tired,  and  cold." 

"  But  you  didn't  tell  me  what  a  gentleman  is  ?  " 
pursued  Rotha,  beginning  now  to  bustle  about  and 
do  as  she  was  told. 

"  Wait  till  I  have  had  some  tea.  How  much  tea 
is  left,  Rotha  ?  " 

"Well,  I  guess,  enough  to  last  almost  a  week," 
said  the  girl,  peering  into  the  box  which  did  duty 
for  a  tea-caddy. 

"I  must  manage  to  get  some  more,"  said  the 
mother.  "I  could  hardly  get  along  without  my 
cup  of  tea." 

"Mother,  here  has  been  somebody  who  wants 
you  to  make  shirts  for  him  at  two  dollars  a 
piece." 

"  Two  dollars  a  piece ! "  Mrs.  Carpenter  echoed. 
"  I  could  afford  to  get  tea  then.  Who  was  that, 


80  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Eotha  ?  and  what  sort  of  shirts  does  he  want  made 
for  such  a  price  ?  " 

"I  don't  know!  he  said  he  wanted  them  very 
particularly  made,  and  I  told  him  that  was  the 
way  you  did  everything.  Now  mother  dear,  the 
kettle  will  boil  in  two  minutes." 

"  Who  is  this  person  ?  " 

"  I  told  you,  he  is  a  city  missionary.  His  name 
is  Mr.  Digby." 

"  Digby," — said  Mrs.  Carpenter.  "  I  do  not  know 
him." 

"  Of  course  you  don't.  But  you  will  be  glad  of 
the  shirts,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Very  glad,  and  thankful." 

"But  is  two  dollars  a  proper  price?"  inquired 
Rotha  a  little  jealously. 

"  It  is  an  uncommon  price." 

"What  could  make  him  offer  an  uncommon 
price  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  It  is  not  the  way  of  the  world, 
so  perhaps  he  is  not  one  of  the  world." 

"  He's  a  Christian,  you  mean  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Do  Christians  always  do  the  right  thing  ?  " 

"  Real  Christians  do,  when  they  know  what  the 
right  thing  is.  I  am  too  tired  to  talk,  Rotha." 

Rotha  bestirred  herself  and  set  the  little  table. 
Not  very  much  went  on  it,  besides  the  cups  and 
plates;  but  there  was  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  Rotha 
made  a  slice  of  toast;  and  Mrs.  Carpenter  sipped 
her  tea  as  if  she  found  it  refreshing. 


A  VlSITER.  81 

"  I  wish  I  had  a  good  tumbler  of  milk,"  sighed 
Eotha ;  "  real  milk,  not  like  this.  And  I  wish  you 
had  some  Medwayville  cream,  mother.  I  think,  if 
I  ever  get  back  into  the  country  again,  I  shall  go 
wild." 

"  I  sometimes  think  you  are  a  little  of  that  here," 
said  Mrs.  Carpenter. 

"Not  wild  with  joy,  mother." 

Mrs.  Carpenter  sipped  her  tea,  and  stretched  out 
her  feet  towards  the  small  stove,  and  seemed  to  be 
taking  some  comfort.  But  her  face  was  thin  and 
worn,  the  hands  were  very  thin;  a  person  with  more 
experience  than  her  young  daughter  would  have 
been  ill  content  with  her  appearance. 

"  Mother,  now  can  you  tell  me  my  question  ? 
What  do  you  mean  by  a  '  gentleman.'  " 

"  Perhaps  not  just  what  Mrs.  Marble  means  by  it." 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  This  person  was  very  well 
dressed,  but  clothes  do  not  make  it,  do  they, 
mother  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not." 

"  He  has  got  a  nice  face,  and  he  seemed  to  know 
always  just  what  to  do  and  to  say;  I  can't  tell  you 
what  I  mean  exactly;  but  I  should  think,  to  look 
at  him  and  hear  him,  that  he  knew  everything  and 
had  seen  all  the  world.  Of  course  he  hasn't  and 
doesn't ;  but  that  is  the  sort  of  feeling  I  have  when 
I  look  at  him." 

Mrs.  Carpenter  smiled. 

"Did  you  never  see  anybody  before  of  whom  you 
thought  so?" 


82  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Never.  I  never  did,"  said  Botha.  "  The  peo- 
ple who  come  here  on  business,  don't  know  the 
least  bit  how  to  behave;  and  the  people  at  dear 
old  Medwayville  did  not.  O  they  were  kind  and 
good  as  they  could  be,  some  of  them;  but  moth- 
er, they  could  not  make  a  bow  to  save  their  lives, 
and  they  would  stand  and  sit  all  sorts  of  ways ;  and 
they  wouldn't  know  when  they  had  done  talking, 
nor  how  to  do  anything  nicely." 

"  Perhaps  this  man  was  stiff,"  said  Mrs.  Carpen- 
ter amused. 

"  He  was  not  stiff  in  the  least;  but  mother,  what 
is  a  gentleman  ?  " 

"  1  do  not  know  how  to  tell  you,  Kotha.  Your 
description  sounds  very  much  like  one." 

A  day  or  two  after,  Mr.  Digby  came  again,  and 
had  an  interview  with  Mrs.  Carpenter.  This  time 
he  paid  no  attention  to  Rotha,  and  I  think  the 
little  girl  was  somewhat  disappointed.  The  next 
day  he  came  again  and  brought  with  him  the  bun- 
dle of  shirts.  He  inquired  now  very  kindly  into 
Mrs.  Carpenter's  state  of  health,  and  offered  to  send 
his  own  physician  to  see  her.  But  she  refused; 
and  the  manner  of  her  refusal  persuaded  Mr.  Digby 
that  she  was  aware  of  her  own  condition  and  be- 
lieved no  medicine  would  be  of  avail.  He  was 
much  of  the  same  opinion  himself;  and  indeed  was 
inclined  to  suspect  that  there  was  more  need  of 
good  food  than  of  drugs  in  this  case.  More  diffi- 
cult at  the  same  time  to  administer. 

A  few  days  passed,  and  Mr.  Digby  again  came. 


A  VlSITER.  83 

He  found  Mrs.  Carpenter  steady  at  her  work,  but 
looking  very  worn  and  pale.  Rotha  was  just  put- 
ting on  the  small  tea  kettle.  Mr.  Digby  sat  down 
and  made  kind  inquiries.  The  answers  were  with 
the  sweet  patient  composure  which  he  saw  was 
habitual  with  Mrs.  Carpenter. 

"  How  is  your  appetite  ?  "  he  asked. 

"I  suppose  I  am  not  enough  in  the  open  air 
and  stirring  about,  to  have  it  very  good." 

"  Have  you  much  strength  for  '  stirring  about '  ?  " 

"Not  much." 

"People  cannot  have  strength  without  eating. 
Rotha,  what  time  do  you  give  your  mother  her 
dinner  ?  " 

"  Now,"  said  Rotha.  "  I  put  the  kettle  on  just 
as  you  came  in." 

"  1  saw  you  did.  But  what  is  the  connection, 
may  I  ask,  between  dinner  and  the  tea  kettle  ?  " 

"  Rotha  makes  me  a  cup  of  tea,"  said  Mrs.  Car- 
penter smiling.  "  I  can  hardly  get  along  without 
that." 

"  Ah ! — Mrs.  Carpenter,  I  have  had  a  busy  morn- 
ing and  arn — which  I  am  sorry  you  are  not — hungry. 
May  I  take  a  cup  of  tea  with  you  ?  " 

"  Certainly ! — I  should  be  very  glad.  Rotha,  set 
a  cup  for  Mr.  Digby,  dear.  But  tea  is  not  much 
to  a  hungry  man,"  she  went  on ;  "  and  I  am  afraid 
there  is  little  in  the  house  but  bread  and  butter." 

"That  will  do  capitally.  If  you'll  furnish  the 
bread  and  butter,  I  will  see  what  I  can  get  for  my 
part.  If  you'll  excuse  the  liberty,  Mrs.  Carpenter?  " 


84  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Mrs.  Carpenter  would  excuse,  I  think,  whatever 
he  might  take  a  fancy  to  do.  She  had  seen  him 
now  several  times,  and  he  had  quite  won  her 
heart. 

"Mother,"  said  Eotha,  as  soon  as  their  visiter 
had  gone  out,  "  what  is  he  going  to  do?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.  Get  something  for  dinner,  he 
said." 

"  Do  you  like  him  to  do  that  ?  " 

"Do  what?" 

"Bring  us  dinner." 

"  Don't  be  foolish,  Kotha." 

"Mother,  I  think  he  is  doing  what  he  calls  a 
'  kindness.' " 

"  Have  you  any  objection  ?  " 

"Not  to  his  doing  it  for  other  people;  but  for 
you  and  me —  Mother,  we  have  not  come  to  receiv- 
ing charity  yet." 

"Rotha!"  exclaimed  her  mother.  "My  child, 
what  are  you  thinking  of?  " 

"Having  kindnesses  done  to  us,  mother;  and  I 
don't  like  it.  It  is  not  Mr.  Digby's  business,  what 
we  have  for  dinner !  " 

"I  told  him  we  had  not  much  but  bread." 

"  Why  did  you  tell  him  ?  " 

"He  would  have  found  it  out,  Rotha,  when  he 
came  to  sit  down  to  the  table." 

"He  had  no  business  to  ask  to  do  that.** 

"I  think  you  are  ungrateful." 

"Mother,  I  don't  want  to  be  grateful.  Not  to 
him." 


A  VlSITER.  85 

"Why  not  to  him,  or  to  anybody,  my  child, 
that  deserves  it  of  you  ?  " 

"He  don't!" — said  Kotha,  as  she  finished  set- 
ting the  table,  rather  in  dudgeon.  "  What  do  you 
suppose  he  is  going  to  bring?  " 

•'Rotha,  what  will  ever  become  of  you  in  this 
world,  with  that  spirit  ?  " 

"What  spirit?" 

"Pride,  I  should  say." 

"Isn't  pride  a  good  thing?  " 

"Not  that  ever  I  heard  of,  or  you  either,"  Mrs. 
Carpenter  said  with  a  sigh. 

"Mother,  I  don't  think  you  have  enough  pride." 

"  A  little  is  too  much.  It  makes  people  fall  into 
the  condemnation  of  the  devil.  And  you  are  mis- 
taken in  thinking  there  is  anything  fine  in  it. 
Don't  shew  that  feeling  to  Mr.  Digby,  I  beg  of 
you." 

Rotha  did  not  exactly  pout,  for  that  was  not  her 
way;  but  she  looked  dissatisfied.  Presently  she 
heard  a  sound  below,  and  opened  the  door. 

"He's  coming  up  stairs,"  she  said  softly,  "and  a 
boy  with  him  bringing  something.  Mother ! — " 

She  had  no  chance  to  say  more.  Mr.  Digby 
came  in,  followed  by  a  boy  with  a  basket.  The 
basket  was  set  down  and  the  boy  disappeared. 

"Mrs.  Carpenter,"  said  the  gentleman,  "I  could 
not  find  anything  in  this  neighbourhood  better 
than  oysters.  Do  you  like  them  ?  " 

"Oysters!"  said  Mrs.  Carpenter.  "It  is  very 
long  since  I  have  seen  any.  Yes,  I  like  them." 


86  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"Then  the  next  question  is,  how  do  you  like 
them?  Saw?  or  roasted?  We  can  roast  them 
here,  cannot  we  ?  " 

"I  have  not  seen  a  roast  oyster  since  I  was  a 
girl,"  said  Mrs.  Carpenter.  Her  visiter  could  hear 
in  the  tone  of  her  voice  that  the  sight  would  be 
^ery  welcome.  As  for  Eotha,  displeasure  was  lost 
in  curiosity.  The  oysters  were  already  nicely 
washed;  that  Mr.  Digby  had  had  done  by  the  same 
boy  that  brought  the  basket;  it  only  remained  to 
put  them  on  the  fire  and  take  them  off;  and  both 
operations  he  was  quite  equal  to.  Rotha  looked 
on  in  silent  astonishment,  seeing  the  oyster  shells 
open,  and  the  juice  sputter  on  the  hot  iron,  and 
perceiving  the  very  acceptable  fragrance  that  came 
from  them.  Mr.  Digby  admonished  her  presently 
to  make  the  tea;  and  then  they  had  a  merry  meal. 
Absolutely  merry ;  for  their  visitor,  he  could  hardly 
be  called  their  guest,  spiced  his  ministrations  with 
so  pleasant  a  manner  that  nothing  but  cheerfulness 
could  keep  its  ground  before  him.  At  the  first 
taste  of  the  oysters,  it  is  true,  some  associations 
seemed  to  come  over  Mrs.  Carpenter  which  threat- 
ened to  make  a  sudden  stop  to  her  dinner.  She 
sat  back  in  her  chair,  and  perhaps  was  swallowing 
old  troubles  and  heartburnings  over  again,  or  per- 
haps recalling  involuntarily  a  time  before  troubles 
began.  The  oysters  seemed  to  choke  her;  and  she 
said  she  wanted  no  more.  But  Mr.  Digby  guessed 
what  was  the  matter;  and  was  so  tenderly  kind 
and  judiciously  persuasive,  that  Mrs.  Carpenter 


A   VlSITER.  87 

could  not  withstand  him;  and  then,  Rotha  looked 
on  in  new  amazement  to  see  how  the  oysters  went 
down  and  IIOAV  manifestly  they  were  enjoyed.  She 
herself  declined  to  touch  them ;  they  did  not  look 
attractive  to  her. 

"  Botha,"  said  Mr.  Digby,  as  he  opened  a  fine, 
fat  oyster,  "the  only  way  to  know  things  is,  to 
submit  to  learn." 

"  I  needn't  learn  to  like  oysters,  I  suppose,  need  I  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 

"  It  might  be  useful  some  day." 

"  I  don't  see  •  how  it  should.  We  never  had 
oysters  before,  and  perhaps  we  never  shall  again." 

"You  might  go  a  missionary  to  some  South 
Sea  island,  and  be  obliged  at  times  to  live  upon 
oysters." 

"  1  am  not  going  to  be  a  missionary." 

"  That  is  more  than  you  know." 

"  But  I  know  what  I  like,"  and  what  I  think." 

"At  present.  Perhaps  you  do.  You  do  not 
know  whether  you  like  oysters,  however,  for  you 
have  not  tried." 

"Your  sphere  of  knowledge  will  be  small,  Ro- 
tha," said  her  mother,  "if  you  refuse  to  enlarge 
it." 

Stung  a  little,  Rotha  made  up  her  mind  to  try 
an  oyster,  to  which  her  objections  were  twofold. 
Nevertheless,  she  was  obliged  to  confess,  she  liked 
it;  and  the  meal,  as  I  said,  went  merrily  on;  Rotha 
from  that  time  doing  her  fall  share.  Mrs.  Carpen- 


88  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

ter  was  plainly  refreshed  arid  comforted,  by  the 
social  as  well  as  the  material  food  she  received. 

"  How  good  he  is ! "  she  exclaimed  when  their 
friend  was  gone. 

"So  are  the  oysters,"  said  Rotha;  "but  I  don't 
like  him  to  bring  them.  I  do  not  think  I  like  Mr. 
Digby  much,  anyhow." 

"You  surprise  me.  And  it  is  not  a  little  un- 
grateful." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  grateful  to  him.  And 
mother,  I  dont  like  him  to  bring  oysters  here !  " 

"Why  shouldn't  he,  if  he  likes?  I  am  sorry  to 
see  such  pride  in  you,  Rotha.  It  is  very  foolish, 
my  child." 

"Mother,  it  looks  as  if  he  knew  we  were  poor." 

"  He  knows  it,  of  course.  Am  I  not  making  his 
shirts  ?  " 

Eotha  was  silent,  clearing  away  the  dishes  and 
oyster  shells  with  a  good  deal  of  decision  and 
dissatisfaction  revealed  in  her  movements. 

"  Everybody  knows  it,  my  child." 

"I  do  not  mind  everybody.  I  just  mind  him. 
He  is  different.  Why  is  he  different,  mother? " 

"  I  suppose  the  difference  you  mean  is,  that  he  is 
a  gentleman." 

"And  what  are  we?"  said  Rotha,  suddenly  stand- 
ing still  to  put  the  question. 

"We  are  respectable  people,"  said  her  mother 
smiling. 

"Not  gentlemen,  of  course;  but  what  do  you 
call  us  ?  " 


A  VlSITER.  89 

"  If  I  could  call  you  a  Christian,  Kotha,  I  should 
not  care  for  anything  else ;  at  least  I  should  not  be 
concerned  about  it.  Everything  else  would  be 
right." 

"  Being  a  Christian  would  not  make  any  differ- 
ence in  what  I  am  talking  about." 

"I  think  it  would;  but  I  cannot  talk  to  you 
about  it,  Ask  Mr.  Digby  the  next  time  he  comes." 

"Ask  him  ! "  cried  Eotha.  "  I  guess  I  will !  What 
makes  you  think  he  is  coming  again,  mother  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  like  him." 


CHAPTER  V. 

PRIVATE  TUITION. 

MORE  days  passed  however,  than  either  of  them 
expected,  before  Mr.  Digby  came  again. 
They  were  days  of  stern  cold  winter  weather,  in 
which  it  was  sometimes  difficult  to  keep  their  little 
rooms  comfortable  without  burning  more  coal  than 
Mrs.  Carpenter  thought  she  could  afford.  Rotha 
ran  along  the  streets  to  the  corner  shop  where  she 
bought  tea  and  sugar,  not  quite  so  well  wrapped 
up  but  that  she  found  a  quick  pace  useful  to  pro- 
tect her  from  the  cold;  and  Mrs.  Carpenter  wrought 
at  her  sewing  sometimes  with  stiffened  fingers. 

"  Mother,"  said  Rotha,  one  day,  "  /think  it  would 
be  better  to  do  without  tea  and  have  a  little  more 
fire." 

"I  do  not  know  how  to  get  along  without  tea," 
Mrs.  Carpenter  said  with  a  sigh. 

"But  you  are  getting  along  without  almost 
everything  else." 

"We  do  very  well  yet,"  answered  the  mother 
patiently. 

"Do  we?"  said  Rotha.  "If  this  is  what  you 
call  very  well —  Mother,  you  cannot  live  upon 
tea." 

'90) 


PRIVATE  TUITION.  91 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  could  not  live  without  it." 

" Has  Mr.  Digby  given  you  any  money  yet?  " 

"  The  shirts  are  only  just  finished." 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do  now?  But  he'll 
pay  you  a  good  many  dollars,  won't  he,  mother? 
Twenty  four,  for  twelve  shirts.  But  there  is  eight 
to  be  paid  for  rent,  I  know,  and  that  leaves  only 
sixteen.  And  he  can  afford  to  pay  the  whole 
twenty  four,  just  for  a  dozen  shirts !  Mother,  I 
don't  think  some  people  have  a  right  to  be  so  rich, 
while  others  are  so  poor." 

"  '  The  Lord  maketh  poor  and  maketh  rich'  " — 
Mrs.  Carpenter  answered. 

"  Why  does  he  ?  " 

"  Sometimes,  I  think,  he  wishes  to  teach  his  chil- 
dren to  depend  on  him." 

"Couldn't  they  do  it  if  they  were  rich?  " 

"There  is  great  danger  they  would  not." 

"You  would,  mother." 

"Perhaps  not.  But  I  have  always  enough, 
Eotha." 

"  Enough ! "  echoed  Kotha.  "  Enough !  when  you 
haven't  had  a  good  dinner  since —  Mother,  there 
he  is  again,  I  do  believe !  " 

And  she  had  hardly  time  to  remove  the  empty 
tea  cup  and,  alas !  empty  plates,  which  testified  to 
their  meagre  fare,  when  the  knock  came  and  Mr. 
Digby  shewed  himself.  He  explained  that  he  had 
been  out  of  town ;  made  careful  inquiries  as  to  Mrs. 
Carpenter's  health ;  paid  for  the  shirts ;  and  finally 
turned  to  Rotha. 


92  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  How  is  my  friend  here  doing  ?  " 

"We  always  go  on  just  the  same  way,"  said 
Kotha.  But  he  could  see  that  the  girl  was  thin, 
and  pale ;  and  that  just  at  an  age  when  she  was 
growing  fast  and  needing  abundant  food,  she  was 
not  getting  it. 

"Ask  Mr.  Digby  your  question,  Botha,"  her 
mother  said. 

"  I  do  not  want  to  ask  him  any  questions,"  the 
girl  answered  defiantly.  But  Mrs.  Carpenter  went 
on. 

"Rotha  wants  to  know  what  a  gentleman  is; 
and  1  was  not  able  to  discuss  the  point  satisfac- 
torily with  her.  I  told  her  to  ask  you." 

Rotha  did  not  ask,  however,  and  there  was 
silence. 

"  Rotha  is  fond  of  asking  questions,"  Mr.  Digby 
observed. 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?  "  she  retorted. 

He  smiled.  "  It  is  a  very  good  habit — provided 
of  course  that  the  questions  are  properly  put." 

"I  like  to  ask  mother  questions,"  Rotha  said, 
drawing  in  a  little. 

"I  have  no  doubt  you  would  like  to  ask  me 
questions,  if  you  once  got  into  the  way  of  it. 
Habit  is  everything." 

"Not  quite  everything,  in  this,"  said  Rotha. 
"There  must  be  something  before  the  habit." 

"Yes.     There  must  be  a  beginning." 

"I  meant  something  else." 

"  Did  you  ?     May  I  ask,  what  did  you  mean  ?  " 


PRIVATE  TUITION.  93 

"  I  mean  a  good  deal,"  said  Rotha.  "  Before  one 
could  get  a  habit  like  that,  one  must  know  that 
the  person  could  answer  the  questions;  and  be- 
sides, that  he  would  like  to  have  them  asked." 

"  In  my  case  I  will  pledge  myself  for  the  second 
qualification;  about  the  first  you  must  learn  by 
experience.  Suppose  you  try." 

His  manner  was  so  pleasant  and  well  bred,  and 
Rotha  felt  that  she  had  gone  so  near  the  edge 
of  politeness,  she  found  it  best  for  this  time  to 
comply. 

"  I  asked  mother  one  day  what  is  the  meaning 
of  a  '  gentleman '  ;  and  I  suppose  she  was  too 
tired  to  talk  to  me,  for  she  said  I  had  better  ask 
you." 

"  She  did  me  honour." 

"Well,  what  is  it  then,  Mr.  Digby." 

"  I  should  say,  it  is  the  counterpart  to  a  '  lady.' " 

"But  isn't  everybody  that  is  grown  up,  a 
'  lady '  ? — every  woman,  I  mean  ?  " 

"No  more  than  every  grown  up  man  is  a 
gentleman." 

Rotha  stood  looking  at  him,  and  the  young  man 
on  his  part  regarded  her  with  more  attention  than 
usual.  He  was  suddenly  touched  with  compassion 
for  the  girl.  She  stood,  half  doubtful,  half  proud, 
dimly  conscious  of  her  enormous  ignorance,  and 
with  an  inward  monition  of  a  whole  world  of 
knowledge  to  be  acquired,  yet  beyond  her  reach; 
at  the  same  time  her  look  shewed  capacity  enough 
both  to  understand  arid  to  feel.  Rotha  was  now 


94  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

nearly  fourteen,  with  mental  powers  just  opening 
and  personal  gifts  just  beginning  to  dawn.  The 
child's  complexion  told  of  poor  feeding  and  want 
of  air  and  exercise;  it  was  sallow,  and  her  features 
were  sharp;  but  her  hair  was  beautiful  in  its  lus- 
trous, dark  abundance;  the  eyes  shewed  the  fire 
of  native  passion  and  intelligence ;  the  mouth  was 
finely  cut  and  expressed  half  a  dozen  things  in  as 
many  minutes.  "  Poor  child ! "  thought  the  visiter ; 
"what  is  to  become  of  her,  with  all  this  latent 
power  and  possibility  ?  " 

"A  gentleman,  Rotha,"  he  said  aloud,  "may  be 
defined  as  a  person  who  in  all  manner  of  little 
things  keeps  the  golden  rule — does  to  everybody 
as  he  would  be  done  by;  and  knows  how." 

"  In  little  things  ?     Not  in  great  things  ?  " 

"One  may  do  it  in  great  things,  and  not  be  a 
gentleman  in  manner;  though  certainly  in  heart." 

"Then  it  is  manner?" 

"Very  much." 

"  And  a  lady  the  same  way  ?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"What  sort  of  little  things  ?  "  said  Rotha  curiously. 

"A  lady  in  the  first  place  will  be  always  careful 
and  delicate  about  her  own  person  and  dress;  it 
does  not  depend  upon  what  she  wears,  but  how 
she  wears  it;  a  lady  might  wear  patches,  but  never 
could  be  untidy.  Then,  in  all  her  moving,  speak- 
ing, and  acting,  she  will  be  gentle,  quiet,  and  po- 
lite. And  in  her  behaviour  to  others,  she  will 
give  everybody  the  respect  that  is  due,  and  never 


PRIVATE  TUITION.  95 

put  herself  forward.  'In  honour  preferring  one 
another,'  is  the  Bible  rule,  and  it  is  the  law  of 
good  breeding.  And  the  Bible  says,  'Honour  all 
men;'  and,  'Be  courteous.' — Have  I  spoken  ac- 
cording to  your  mind,  Mrs.  Carpenter?  " 

"Beautifully,"  said  the  silent,  pale  seamstress, 
never  stopping  her  needle.  "  Better  than  I  could 
have  done  it.  Now  you  know,  Rotha." 

Rotha  stood  considering,  uneasy. 

"What  is  the  next  question?"  said  Mr.  Digby 
smiling. 

"I  was  thinking — "  said  Rotha.  "Mustn't  one 
know  a  good  deal,  to  do  all  that  ?  " 

"To  do  what,  for  instance?" 

"To  give  everybody  the  respect  that  is  due;  it  is 
not  the  same  to  everybody,  is  it  ?  " 

"No,  certainly." 

"How  can  one  know?" 

"There  is  a  good  deal  to  be  learned  in  this  world, 
before  one  can  hold  the  balance  scales  to  weigh 
out  to  each  one  exactly  what  belongs  to  him,"  Mr. 
Digby  admitted. 

"That  is  one  of  my  troubles,"  said  Mrs.  Carpen- 
ter looking  up.  "I  cannot  give  my  child  an  edu- 
cation. I  do  a  little  at  home;  it  is  better  than 
nothing ;  but  I  feel  that  my  power  grows  less  and 
less;  and  Rotha's  needs  are  more  and  more." 

"  What  do  you  know,  Rotha  ?  "  said  Mr.  Digby. 

"  I  don't  know  much  of  anything ! "  said  the  girl, 
an  eloquent  flush  coming  into  her  pale  face.  It 
touched  him. 


96  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  A  little  of  what,  then  ?  "  said  their  visiter  kindly. 

"You  would  not  say  it  was  anything." 

"  She  knows  a  little  history,"  Mrs.  Carpenter  put 
in. 

"Have  you  any  acquaintance  with  Alexander  of 
Macedon,  Rotha?" 

"The  Great?  "  asked  Rotha. 

"He  is  called  so." 

"Yes,  I  know  about  him." 

"Think  he  deserved  the  title?" 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  he  did." 

"  What  for  ?  " 

"  He  was  such  a  clever  man." 

"  Well,  I  have  no  doubt  he  was,"  Mr.  Digby  re- 
turned, keeping  a  perfectly  grave  face  with  some 
difficulty;  "a  clever  man;  but  how  did  he  shew  it?" 

Rotha  paused,  and  a  faint  tinge,  of  excitement 
this  time,  rose  again  in  her  cheeks,  and  her  eye 
waked  up  with  the  mental  stir.  "  He  had  such 
grand  plans,"  she  answered. 

"  Ah  ?  yes.     Which  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"For  civilizing  people;  for  bringing  the  differ- 
ent nations  to  know  each  other  and  be  friends 
with  each  other;  so  that  trade  could  be  carried  on, 
and  knowledge  and  arts  and  civilization  could 
spread  to  all ;  that  his  empire  could  be  one  great 
whole." 

"On  the  whole  you  approve  of  Alexander. 
After  all,  what  use  was  he  to  the  world  ?  " 

"Why  a  good  deal,"  said  Rotha.  "Don't  you 
think  so  ?  His  successors  carried  on  his  plans ;  at 


PRIVATE  TUITION.  97 

least  some  of  them  did;  and  the  Greek  language 
was  spread  through  Asia,  and  the  Jews  encour- 
aged to  settle  in  Egyptian  and  Greek  cities;  and 
so  the  way  was  prepared  for  the  spread  of  the 
gospel  when  it  came." 

"  Mrs.  Carpenter,"  said  Mr.  Digby,  "  your  man- 
ner of  teaching  history  is  very  satisfactory !  " 

"I  have  done  what  I  could,"  said  the  mother, 
"but  we  had  very  few  books  to  work  with. " 

"We  had  none,"  said  Eotha,  "except  Rbllin's 
Ancient  History,  and  Plutarch's  Lives." 

"  One  good  book,  well  used,  is  worth  a  hundred 
under  other  circumstances.  Then  you  do  not  know 
much  of  modern  history,  Eotha  ?  " 

"Nothing  at  all;  except  what  mother  has  told 
me." 

"  How  about  grammar  ?  " 

"  I  have  taught  her  grammar,"  said  Mrs.  Car- 
penter; "and  geography.  She  knows  both  pretty 
well.  But  I  found,  with  my  work,  i  could  not 
teach  her  arithmetic ;  and  I  had  not  a  good  book 
for  it.  Eotha  can  do  nothing  with  numbers." 

Mr.  Digby  gave  the  girl  a  simple  question  in 
mental  arithmetic ;  and  then  another,  and  another. 
Eotha's  brow  grew  intent;  the  colour  in  her  cheeks 
brightened ;  she  was  grappling,  it  was  plain,  with 
the  difficulties  suggested  to  her,  wrestling  with 
them,  conquering  them,  with  the  sort  of  zeal 
which  conquers  all  difficulties  not  insurmountable. 

"May  I  give  Eotha  lessons  in  Latin?"  Mr.  Digby 
asked,  turning  quietly  to  Eotha's  mother. 


98  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"Latin!"  Mrs.  Carpenter  exclaimed,  and  her 
cheeks  too  flushed  slightly. 

"I  should  enjoy  it.  It  is  likely  that  important 
business  will  bring  me  frequently  into  this  part  of 
the  city ;  so  I  could  do  it  as  well  as  not." 

"  But  it  would  be  so  much  trouble — unless  you 
are  fond  of  teaching — " 

"  I  am  fond  of  teaching — when  I  find  somebody 
that  can  learn." 

"  You  are  very  kind ! — I  should  be  very  glad — 
Poor  Kotha,  I  have  been  unable  to  do  for  her  what 
I  wished — " 

"I  think  you  have  done  admirably,  from  the 
slight  specimen  I  have  had.  How  much  time  can 
she  give  to  study  ?  " 

"O  she  has  time  enough.  She  is  much  more 
idle  than  I  like  to  have  her." 

"Then"  that  is  arranged.  I  am  going  to  send 
you  a  few  raw  oysters,  Mrs.  Carpenter;  and  I 
wish  you  would  eat  them  at  all  times  of  day, 
whenever  you  feel  like  it.  I  knew  a  very  slender 
lady  once,  who  grew  to  very  ample  proportions  by 
following  such  a  regimen.  Try  what  they  will  do 
for  you." 

A  grateful,  silent  look  thanked  him,  and  he  took 
his  departure.  Rotha,  who  had  been  standing 
silent  and  cloudy,  now  burst  forth. 

"  Mother ! — I  do  not  want  him  to  teach  me  !  " 

"  Why  not,  my  child  ?     I  think  he  is  very  kind.' 

"  Kind  !  I  don't  want  to  be  taught  out  of  kind- 
ness; and  I  dorit  want  him  to  teach  me,  mother!  " 


PRIVATE  TUITION.  99 

"What's  the  matter?"  for  Rotha  was  flushed 
and  fierce. 

"I  can  learn  without  him.     It  is  none  of  his 
business,  whether  I  learn  or  not.    And  if  I  shouldn't 
say  something  just  right,  and  he  should  find  fault, 
I  should  be  so  angry  1  shouldn't  know  what  to  do!" 
"  You  talk  as  if  you  were  angry  now." 
"  Well  I  am  !     Why  did  you  say  yes,  mother  ?  " 
"  Would  you  have  had  me  say  no  ?  " 
"Yes!     I   don't  want  to  learn   Latin   anyhow. 
What's  the  use  of  my  learning  Latin  ?     And  of 
him, — 0  mother,  mother !  " 

And  Rotha  burst  into  impatient  and  impotent 
tears. 

"Why  not  of  Mr.  Digby?"  said  her  mother 
soothingly. 

"0  he  is  so — I  can't  tell! — he's  so  uppish." 
"  He  is  not  uppish  at  all.     I  am  ashamed  of  you, 
Rotha." 

"Well,  nothing  puts  him  out.  He  is  just  always 
the  same;  and  he  thinks  everything  must  be  as 
he  says.  I  don't  like  him  to  come  here  teach- 
ing me." 

"  What  folly  is  this  ?     He  is  a  gentleman,  that's 
all.     Do  you  dislike  him  for  being  a  gentleman  ?  " 
"  I'm  not  a  lady  " — sobbed  Rotha. 
"  What  has  that  to  do  with  it  ?  " 
"  Mother,  I  wish  I  could  be  a  lady  !  " 
"  My  child,  Mr.  Digby  told  you  how." 
"No,  he  didn't.     He  told  me  ivliat  it  was;  he 
didn't  tell  me  how  I  could  get  all  that." 


100  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"You  can  follow  the  Bible  roles,  at  any  rate, 
Botha ;  and  they  go  a  good  way." 

"  Xo,  I  can't,  mother.     I  could  if  I  were  a  Chris 
tian,  I  suppose;  but  I  am  not     I  can't  'honour  all 
men ' ;  I  don't  know  how ;  and  I  can't  prefer  others 
before  myself     I  prefer  myself     But  if  I  could, 
that  wouldn't  make  me  a  lady." 

Mrs.  Carpenter  did  not  know  what  to  do  with 
this  passion,  the  cause  of  which  she  was  at  a  loss 
to  understand.  It  was  very  real;  Rot  ha  sobbed; 
and  her  mother  was  at  a  loss  how  to  comfort  her. 
What  dim,  far-off  recognition  was  this,  of  powers 
and  possibilities  in  life — or  in  herself — of  which 
the  girl  had  hitherto  no  experience  and  no  knowl- 
edge ?  It  was  quite  just  Mrs.  Carpenter,  herself 
refined  and  essentially  lady-like,  knew  very  well 
that  her  little  girl  was  not  growing  up  to  be  a 
lady;  she  had  laid  that  ofij  along  with  several 
other  subjects  of  care,  as  beyond  her  reach  to  deal 
with;  but  Botha's  appeal  smote  a  tender  spot  in 
her  heart,  and  she  was  puzzled  how  to  answer  her. 
Perhaps  it  was  just  as  well  that  she  took  refuge  in 
her  usual  silence  and  did  not  try  any  further. 

As  Mr.  Digby  was  going  through  the  little  pas- 
sage way  to  the  front  door,  another  door  opened 
and  Mrs.  Marble's  head  was  put  out. 

"Good  morning!"  she  said.  "You're  a  friend 
of  those  folks  up  stairs,  aint  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  certainly." 

"Well,  what  do  yon  think  of  her?"  she  said, 
lowering  her  voice. 


PRIVATE  TUITION.  101 

"  I  think  you  are  a  happy  woman,  to  have  such 
lodgers,  Mrs.  Marble." 

"I  guess  I  know  as  much  as  that^"  said  the 
mantua-maker,  with  her  pleasant,  arch  smile.  "I 
meant  something  else.  /  think,  she's  a  sick 
woman." 

Mr.  Digby  did  not  commit  himsel£ 

"  I'm  worried  to  death  about  her,"  Mrs.  Marble 
went  on.  "  Her  cough's  bad,  and  it's  growin' 
worse;  and  she  aint  fit  to  be  workin'  this  min- 
ute. And  what's  goin'  to  become  of  her  ? 

"  The  Lord  takes  care  of  his  children ;  and  she 
is  one." 

"If  there  is  such  a  thing!"  said  the  mantua- 
maker,  a  quick  tear  dimming  her  eye.  "  But  you 
see,  I  have  my  own  work,  and  I  can't  leave  it  to 
do  much  for  her;  and  she  won't  let  me,  neither; 
and  I  am  thiukiu'  about  it  day  and  night.  She 
aint  fit  to  work,  this  minute.  And  there's  the 
child;  and  they  haven't  a  living  soul  to  care  for 
them,  as  I  see,  in  all  the  world.  They  never  have 
a  letter,  and  they  never  get  a  visit,  except  your'n." 

"  Kent  paid  ?  "  asked  the  gentleman  low. 

"Always!  never  miss.  But  I'm  thiukin' — how 
do  they  live?  That  child's  grown  thin — she's  like 
a  piece  o'  wiggin';  she'll  hold  up  when  there's 
nothin'  to  her." 

Mr.  Digby  could  not  help  laughing. 

"  I  thought,  if  you  can't  help,  nobody  can. 
What's  to  become  of  them  if  she  gets  worse? 
That  child  can't  do  for  her." 


102  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Marble ;  you  are  but  touching 
what  I  have  thought  of  myself.  I  will  see  what 
can  be  done." 

"  And  don't  be  long  about  it,"  said  the  mantua- 
maker  with  a  nod  of  her  head  as  she  closed  the 
door. 

Perhaps  it  was  owing  to  Mrs.  Marble's  sugges- 
tions that  Mr.  Digby  made  his  next  visit  the  day 
but  one  next  after;  perhaps  they  were  the  cause 
that  he  -did  not  come  sooner!  At  any  rate,  in 
two  days  he  came  again;  and  brought  with  him 
not  only  a  Latin  grammar,  but  a  paper  of  grapes 
for  Mrs.  Carpenter.  At  the  grammar  Rotha's  soul 
rebelled;  but  what  displeasure  could  stand  against 
those  beautiful  grapes  and  the  sight  of  her  mother 
eating  them  ?  They  were  not  very  good,  Mr. 
Digby  said;  he  would  bring  better  next  time; 
though  to  the  sick  woman  they  were  ambrosia, 
and  to  Botha  an  unknown,  most  exquisite  dainty. 
Seeing  her  delighted,  wondering  eyes,  Mr.  Digby 
with  a  smile  broke  off  part  of  a  bunch  and  gave 
to  her. 

"It  shall  not  rob  your  mother,"  he  said  observ- 
ing that  she  hesitated.  "I  will  bring  her  some 
more." 

Rotha  tasted. 

"  0  mother ! "  she  exclaimed  in  ecstasy, — "  I  should 
think  these  would  make  yoii  well  right  off!" 

Mr.  Digby  opened  the  Latin  grammar.  I  think 
he  wanted  an  excuse  for  veiling  his  eyes  just  then. 
And  Rotha,  mollified,  when  she  had  finished  her 


PRIVATE  TUITION.  103 

grapes,  submitted  patiently  to  receive  her  first 
lesson  and  to  be  told  what  her  teacher  expected  her 
to  do  before  he  came  again. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  he  as  he  was  about  going, 
— "  have  you  any  more  room  than  you  need,  Mrs. 
Carpenter  ?  " 

"Room?  no.  We  have  this  floor — "  said  Mrs. 
Carpenter  bewilderedly. 

"You  have  not  one  room  that  you  could  let?  I 
know  a  very  respectable  person,  an  elderly  woman, 
who  I  think  would  be  comfortable  here,  if  you  would 
allow  her  to  come.  She  could  pay  well  for  the  ac- 
commodation." 

"  What  would  be  '  well '  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Carpenter, 
looking  up. 

"  According  to  the  arrangement,  of  course.  For 
a  room  without  a  fire,  she  would  pay  four  dollars 
a  month;  with  fire,  I  should  say,  twelve." 

"  That  would  be  a  great  help  to  me,"  said  Mrs.. 
Carpenter,  considering. 

"  I  know  the  person,  I  have  known  her  a  great 
while.  I  think  I  can  promise  that  she  would  not 
in  any  way  annoy  you." 

"  She  brings  her  own  furniture  ?  " 

"  Of  course." 

After  a  little  more  turning  the  matter  over  in 
her  mind,  Mrs.  Carpenter  gave  an  unqualified  as- 
sent to  the  proposal;  and  her  visiter  took  his  leave. 

"  Mother,"  said  Rotha,  "what  room  are  you  going 
to  give  her  ?  " 

"  There  is  but  one ;  our  bed-room." 


104  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Then  where  shall  we  sleep  ?  " 

"  Here." 

"  Here !     Where  we  do  everything ! — " 

"  It  is  not  so  pleasant ;  but  it  will  pay  our  rent, 
Kotha.  And  I  should  like  a  little  more  warmth  at 
night,-  now  the  weather  is  so  severe." 

"O  mother,  mother!  We  have  got  down  to 
two  rooms,  and  now  we  are  come  down  to  one ! " 

"  Hush,  my  child.     I  am  thankful." 

"Thankful!" 

"  Yes,  for  the  means  to  pay  my  rent." 

"  You  might  have  had  means  to  pay  your  rent, 
and  kept  your  two  rooms,"  said  Rotha;  thinking, 
like  a  great  many  other  people,  that  she  could 
improve  upon  Providence. 

"  How  do  you  like  Latin  ?  " 

"  If  you  mean,  how  I  like  Sermo  Sermonis,  I 
don't  like  it  at  all.  And  it  is  just  ridiculous  for 
Mr.  Digby  to  be  giving  me  lessons." 

The  new  lodger  moved  in  the  very  next  week. 
She  was  a  portly,  comfortable-looking,  kindly-na- 
tured  woman,  whom  Mrs.  Carpenter  liked  from  the 
first.  She  established  herself  quietly  in  her  quarters 
and  almost  as  soon  began  to  shew  herself  neigh- 
bourly and  helpful.  One  day  Mrs.  Carpenter's 
cough  was  particularly  troublesome.  Mrs.  Cord 
came  in  and  suggested  a  palliative  which  she  had 
known  often  to  work  comfortingly.  She  procured 
it  and  prepared  it  herself,  and  then  administered  it, 
and  begged  permission  to  cook  Mrs.  Carpenter's 
dinner;  and  shook  up  the  pillow  at  her  back,  and 


PRIVATE  TUITION.  105 

set  the  rocking  chair  at  an  inclined  angle  which 
gave  support  and  relief.  When  she  had  done  all 
she  could,  she  went  away;  but  she  came  in  again 
as  soon  as  there  was  fresh  occasion  for  her  services, 
and  rendered  them  with  a  hearty  good  will  which 
made  them  doubly  acceptable,  and  with  a  ready 
skill  and  power  of  resources  which  would  have 
roused  in  any  sophisticated  mind  the  suspicion  that 
Mrs.  Cord  was  a  trained  nurse.  Mrs.  Carpenter 
suspected  no  such  thing;  she  only  felt  the  blessed 
benefit,  and  told  Mr.  Digby  what  a  boon  the  new 
lodger  had  become  to  her. 

So  the  winter,  the  latter  part  of  it,  passed  in 
rather  more  comfort  to  the  invalid.  She  did  not 
work  quite  so  steadily,  and  in  good  truth  she  would 
have  been  unable;  she  was  free  of  anxieties  about 
debt,  for  the  rent  was  sure;  and  of  other  things 
they  bought  only  what  they  could  pay  for.  The 
fare  might  so  have  been  meagre  sometimes;  were 
it  not  that  supplies  seemed  to  come  in,  irregularly 
but  opportunely,  in  such  very  pertinent  and  apt 
wrays  that  all  sorts  of  gaps  in  the  housekeeping 
were  filled  up.  Mr.  Digby  kept  their  larder  stocked 
with  oysters,  for  one  thing.  Then  he  would  bring 
a  bit  of  particularly  nice  salmon  he  had  found;  or 
fresh  eggs  that  he  got  from  an  old  woman  down 
town  near  one  of  the  ferries,  whom  he  said  he  could 
trust.  Or  he  brought  some  new  tea  for  Mrs.  Carpen- 
ter to  try ;  sometimes  a  sweetbread,  or  a  fresh  lob- 
ster, from  the  market.  Then  it  was  remarkable  how 
often  Mr.  Digby  was  tempted  by  the  sight  of  game; 


106  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

and  came  with  prairie  chickens,  quails,  partridges 
and  ducks,  to  tempt,  as  he  said,  Mrs.  Carpenter's 
appetite.  And  at  last  he  brought  her  wine.  There 
had  grown  up  between  the  two,  by  this  time,  a 
relation  of  great  kindness  and  even  affection.  Ever 
since  one  day  Mrs.  Carpenter  had  been  attacked 
by  a  terrible  fit  of  coughing  when  he  was  there; 
and  the  young  man  had  waited  upon  her  and  min- 
istered to  her  in  a  way  that  Rotha  had  neither 
strength  for  nor  skill,  and  also  with  a  tenderness 
which  she  could  not  have  surpassed.  And  Rotha 
could  be  tender  where  her  mother  was  concerned. 
Ever  since  that  day  Mr.  Digby  had  assumed,  and 
been  allowed,  something  like  a  son's  place  in  the 
little  family;  and  Mrs.  Carpenter  only  smiled  at 
him  when  he  appeared  with  new  tokens  of  his 
thoughtfulness  and  care. 

Rotha  did  not  accept  him  quite  so  easily.  She 
was  somewhat  jealous  of  his  favour  and  of  the  au- 
thority he  exercised ;  for  without  making  the  fact 
in  any  way  obtrusive,  a  fact  it  was,  that  Mr.  Digby 
did  what  he  pleased.  It  pleased  Mrs.  Carpenter 
too ;  it  did  not  quite  please  Rotha. 

Yet  in  the  matter  of  the  lessons  it  was  as  much 
a  fact  as  anywhere  else.  Mr.  Digby  had  it  quite  his 
own  way.  To  Mrs.  Carpenter  this  '  way '  seemed  a 
marvel  of  kindness,  and  "her  gratitude  was  un- 
bounded. A  feeling  which  Rotha's  heart  did  not 
at  all  share.  She  got  her  lessons,  it  is  true ;  she 
did  what  was  required  of  her;  it  soon  amused  Mrs. 
Carpenter  to  see  with  what  punctilious  care  she 


PRIVATE  TUITION.  107 

did  it;  for  in  the  abstract  Rotha  was  not  fond  of 
application.  She  was  on'e  of  those  who  love  to 
walk  in  at  the  doors  of  knowledge,  but  do-  not 
at  all  enjoy  forging  the  keys  with  which  the  locks 
must  be  opened.  And  forging  keys  was  the  work 
at  which  she  was  now  kept  busy.  Rotha  always 
knew  her  tasks,  but  she  came  to  her  recitations 
with  a  sort  of  reserved  coldness,  as  if  inwardly 
resenting  or  rebelling,  which  there  is  no  doubt 
she  did. 

"Mr.  Digby,  what  is  the  good  of  my  knowing 
Latin  ?  "  she  ventured  to  ask  one  day. 

"  You  know  a  little  about  farming,  do  you  not, 
Rotha?"  was  the  counter  question. 

"  More  than  a  little  bit,  I  guess." 

"  Do  you  ?  Then  you  know  perhaps  what  is 
the  use  of  ploughing  the  ground  ?  " 

"  To  make  it  soft.  What  ground  are  you  plough- 
ing with  Latin,  Mr.  Digby  ?  " 

"The  ground  of  your  mind;  to  get  it  into  work- 
ing order." 

This  intimation  incensed  Rotha.  She  was  too 
vexed  to  speak.  All  this  trouble  just  to  get  her 
mind  into  working  order  ? 

"Is  that  all  Latin  is  good  for?"  she  asked  at 
length. 

"By  no  means.  But  if  it  were — that  is  no  small 
benefit.  Not  only  to  get  the  ground  in  working 
order,  but  to  develope  the  good  qualities  of  it ;  as 
for  instance,  the  power  of  concentration,  the  power 
of  attention,  the  power  of  discernment." 


108  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"I  can  concentrate  my  attention  when  I  have 
a  mind  to,"  said  Rotha. 

"That  is  well.  I  am  going  to  give  you  some- 
thing else  to  do  which  will  practise  you  in  that." 

"  What,  Mr.  Digby  ?  "  With  all  her  impatience 
Rotha  was  careful  to  observe  the  forms  of  polite- 
ness with  her  teacher.  He  silently  handed  her 
an  arithmetic. 

"  Oh ! — "  said  the  girl,  drawing  out  the  word — 
"  I  have  done  sums,  Mr.  Digby." 

"  How  far  ?  " 

It  turned  out  that  Rotha's  progress  in  that  walk 
of  learning  had  been  limited  to  a  very  few  steps. 
And  even  in  those  few  steps,  Mr.  Digby 's  tests  and 
questions  gave  her  a  half  hour  of  sharp  work;  so 
sharp  as  to  bar  other  thoughts  for  the  time.  Rotha 
shewed  in  this  half  hour  uumistakeable  capacity  for 
the  science  of  numbers;  nevertheless,  when  her 
teacher  went  away  leaving  her  a  good  lesson  in 
arithmetic  to  study  along  with  her  Latin  grammar, 
Rotha  spoke  herself  dissatisfied. 

"Am  I  to  learn  just  whatever  Mr.  Digby  chooses 
to  give  me  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  thought  you  liked  learning,  Rotha  ?  " 

"Yes,  mother;  so  I  do.  I  like  learning  well 
enough;  I  don't  like  him  to  say  what  I  shall  learn." 

"  Why  not?     Mr.  Digby  is  very  kind,  Rotha ! " 

"  He  may  mean  it  for  kindness.  I  don't  know 
what  he  means  it  for." 

"  It  is  nothing  but  pure  goodness,"  said  the  moth- 
er with  a  grateful  sigh. 


PRIVATE  TUITION.  109 

"  Well,  is  he  to  give  me  everything  to  learn  that 
he  takes  into  his  head?" 

"  Eotha,  a  teacher  could  not  be  kinder  or  more 
patient  than  Mr.  Digby  is  with  you." 

"  I  don't  try  his  patience,  mother." 

It  was  true  enough;  she  did  not.  She  had  often 
tried  her  mother's;  with  Mr.  Digby  Rotha  was 
punctual,  thorough,  prompt  and  docile.  Whether 
it  were  pride  or  a  mingling  of  something  better, — 
and  Rotha  did  love  learning, — she  never  gave  oc- 
casion for  a  point  of  blame.  It  was  not  certainly 
that  Mr.  Digby  was  harsh  or  stern,  or  used  a  man- 
ner calculated  to  make  anybody  fear  him;  unless 
indeed  it  were  the  perfectness  of  good  breeding 
which  he  always  shewed,  here  in  the  poor  semp- 
stress's room,  and  in  his  lessons  to  the  sempstress's 
child.  Rotha  had  never  seen  the  like  in  anybody 
before;  and  that  more  than  ought  else  probably 
wrought  in  her  such  a  practical  awe  of  him.  Mrs. 
Carpenter  was  even  half  amused  to  observe  how 
Rotha  unconsciously  in  his  presence  was  adopting 
certain  points  of  his  manner;  she  was  quiet;  she 
moved  with  moderate  steps;  she  spoke  in  low  tones; 
she  did  not  fly  out  in  impatient  or  angular  words 
or  gestures,  as  was  her  way  often  enough  at  other 
times.  Yet  her  mother  knew,  and  wondered  why, 
Rotha  rebelled  in  secret  against  the  whole  thing. 
For  herself,  she  was  growing  into  a  love  for  Mr. 
Digby  which  was  almost  like  that  of  a  mother  for 
a  son ;  as  indeed  his  manner  towards  her  was  much 
like  that  of  a  son  towards  his  mother.  It  was  not 


110  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

the  benefits  conferred  and  received;  it  was  a  closer 
bond  which  drew  them  together,  and  a  deeper  re- 
lation. They  looked  into  each  other's  faces,  and 
saw  there,  each  in  the  other,  what  each  recognized 
as  the  signature  of  a  handwriting  that  they  loved ; 
the  stamp  of  a  likeness  that  was  to  them  both  the 
fairest  of  all  earthly  things.  Then  came  the  good 
offices  rendered  and  accepted;  the  frequent  familiar 
intercourse;  the  purely  human  conditions  of  ac- 
quaintanceship and  friendship;  and  it  was  no  mat- 
ter of  surprise  if  by  and  by  the  care  on  the  one 
part  and  the  dependence  on  the  other  grew  to  be 
a  thing  most  natural  and  most  sweet. 

So  it  came  about,  that  by  degrees  the  look  of 
things  changed  in  Mrs.  Carpenter's  small  dwelling 
place.  As  the  cold  of  the  winter  began  to  give 
way  to  the  harshness  of  spring,  and  March  winds 
blew  high,  the  gaseous  fumes  from  the  little  an- 
thracite coal  stove  provoked  Mrs.  Carpenter's  cough 
sadly.  "  She  was  coughing  all  day,"  Mrs.  Cord  told 
their  friend  in  private ;  "  whenever  the  wind  blew 
and  the  gas  came  into  the  room."  Mr.  Digby  took 
his  measures.  The  little  cooking  stove  was  re- 
moved ;  a  little  disused  grate  behind  it  was  opened ; 
and  presently  a  gentle  fire  of  Liverpool  coal  was 
burning  there.  The  atmosphere  of  the  room  as  well 
as  the  physiognomy  of  it  was  entirely  changed;  and 
Mrs.  Carpenter  hung  over  the  fire  and  spread  out 
her  hands  to  it  with  an  expression  of  delight  on 
her  wasted  face  which  it  was  touching  to  see.  Mr. 
Digby  saw  it,  and  perhaps  to  divert  the  feeling 


PRIVATE  TUITION.  Ill 

which  rose  in  him,  began  to  find  fault  with  some- 
thing1 else. 

"That's  a  very  uncomfortable  chair  you  are  sitting 
in ! "  he  said  with  a  strong  expression  of  disapproval. 

"  0  it  does  very  well  indeed,"  answered  Mrs. 
Carpenter.  "  I  want  nothing,  I  think,  having  this 
delightful  fire." 

"  How  do  you  rest  when  you  are  tired  ?  " 

"  I  lean  back.     Or  I  lie  down  sometimes." 

"  Humph  !  Beds  are  very  well  at  night.  I  do 
not  think  they  are  at  all  satisfactory  by  day." 

"  Why  what  would  you  have  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Car- 
penter, smiling  at  him. 

"  I'll  see." 

It  was  the  next  day  only  after  this  that  Eotha, 
having  finished  her  work  for  her  teacher  and 
nothing  else  at  the  moment  calling  for  attention, 
was  standing  at  the  window  looking  out  into  the 
narrow  street.  The  region  was  poor,  but  not 
squalid;  nevertheless  it  greatly  stirred  Botha's 
disgust.  If  New  York  is  ever  specially  disagree- 
able, it  finds  the  occasion  in  a  certain  description 
of  March  weather;  and  this  was  such  an  occasion. 
It  was  very  cold;  the  fire  in  the  grate  was  well 
made  up  and  burning  beautifully  and  the  room 
was  pleasant  enough ;  but  outside  there  were  gusts 
that  were  almost  little  whirlwinds  coursing  up 
and  down  every  street,  carrying  with  them  col- 
umns and  clouds  of  dust.  The  dust  accordingly 
lay  piled  up  on  one  side  of  the  way,  swept  off 
from  the  rest  of  the  street;  not  lying  there  peace- 


112  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

fully,  but  caught  up  again  from  time  to  time, 
whirled  through  the  air,  shaken  out  upon  every- 
body and  everything  in  its  way,  and  finally  swept 
to  one  side  and  deposited  again. 

"  It's  the  most  horrid  weather,  mother,  you  can 
think  of ! "  Kotha  reported  from  her  post  of  obser- 
vation. "  I  shouldn't  think  anybody  would  be  out ; 
but  I  suppose  they  can't  help  it.  A  good  many 
people  are  going  about,  anyhow.  Some  of  them 
are  so  poorly  dressed,  mother !  there  was  a  woman 
went  by  just  now,  carrying  a  basket;  I  should  say 
she  had  very  little  on  indeed  under  her  gown ;  the 
wind  just  took  it  and  wrapped  it  round  her,  and 
she  looked  as  slim  as  a  post." 

"  Poor  creature  !  "  said  Mrs.  Carpenter. 

"Mother,  we  never  saw  people  like  that  in 
Medwayville." 

"No." 

"  Why  are  they  here,  and  not  there  ?  " 

"You  must  ask  Mr.  Digby." 

"I  don't  want  to  ask  Mr.  Digby! — There  are 
two  boys;  ragged; — and  barefooted.  I  don't  know 
what  they  are  out  for;  they  have  nothing  to  do; 
they  are  just  playing  round  an  ash-barrel.  I 
should  think  they'd  be  at  home." 

"  Such  people's  home  is  often  worse  than  the 
streets." 

"But  you  don't  know  how  it  blows  to-day.  I 
should  think,  mother,"  said  Rotha  slowly,  "New 
York  must  want  a  great  many  good  people  in  it." 

"  There  are  a  great  many  good  people  in  it." 


PRIVATE  TUITION.  113 

"  What  are  they  doing,  then  ?  " 

"Looking  out  for  Number  One,  mostly,"  Mrs. 
Cord  answered,  who  happened  to  be  in  the  room. 

"But  it  wants  people  rich  enough  to  look  out  for 
Number  One,  and  for  Number  Two  as  well." 

Mrs.  Carpenter  sighed.  She  knew  there  were 
more  sides  to  the  problem  than  the  simple  "one 
and  two  "  which  appeared  to  Rotha. 

"There  comes  a  coal  cart,  mother;  that  has  to 
go,  I  suppose,  for  somebody  wants  it.  I  should 
hate  to  drive  a  coal  cart !  Mother,  who  wants  it 
here  ?  It  is  backing  down  upon  our  sidewalk." 

"Mrs.  Marble,  I  suppose." 

"No,  she  don't;  she  has  got  her  coal  all  in;  and 
this  isn't  her  coal  at  all;  it  is  in  big  lumps  some  of 
it,  like  what  came  for  the  grate,  and  it  isn't  shiny 
like  the  stove  coal.  It  must  be  for  you,  I  guess." 

Rotha  ran  down  to  see,  and  came  back  with  the 
receipt  for  her  mother  to  sign.  Mrs.  Carpenter 
signed  with  a  trembling  hand,  and  Rotha  flew 
away  again. 

"  It  is  a  whole  cart-load,  mother,"  she  said  com- 
ing back. 

"There  is  one  good  rich  man  in  New  York,"  said 
Mrs.  Carpenter  tremulously. 

"  Do  you  think  he  is  rich  ?  " 

"  I  fancy  so." 

"  He  hasn't  spent  so  very  much  on  us,  has  he  ?  " 
asked  Rotha  consideringly. 

"  It  seems  much  to  me.  More  than  our  share, 
I  am  afraid." 


114  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Our  share  of  what  ?  " 

"  His  kindness." 

"  Who  has  the  other  shares  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell.  Other  people  he  knows,  that  aro 
in  need  of  it." 

"  Mother,  we  are  not  in  need  of  it,  are  we  ?  We 
could  get  along  without  oysters,  I  suppose.  But 
what  I  am  thinking  of  is,  if  he  gives  other  people 
as  good  a  share  of  his  time  as  he  gives  us,  he  can- 
not live  at  home  much.  Where  does  Mr.  Digby 
live,  Mrs.  Cord  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  as  I  can  say,  Kotha.  It  is  a  hotel 
somewheres,  I  believe." 

"I  should  not  think  anybody  would  live  in  a 
hotel,"  said  Rotha,  remembering  her  own  and  her 
mother's  experience  of  the  "North  River."  "Now 
here  comes  another  cart — the  carts  have  to  go  in 
all  sorts  of  times;  but  0  how  the  dust  blows  about ! 
This  cart  is  carrying  something — I  can't  see  what 
— it's  all  wrapped  up." 

"My  dear  Rotha,"  said  her  mother,  "I  am  not 
interested  to  know  what  the  carts  in  the  street  are 
doing.  Are  you  ?  " 

"  This  one  is  stopping,  mother.  It  is  stopping 
here!" 

"  Well,  my  dear,  what  if  it  is.  It  is  no  business 
of  ours." 

"  The  other  cart  was  our  business,  though ;  how 
do  you  know,  mother?  It  has  stopped  here,  and 
the  man  is  taking  the  thing  off." 

Mrs.  Cord  came  to  the  window  to  look,  and  then 


PRIVATE  TUITION.  115 

went  down  stairs.  Eotha,  seeing  that  the  object 
of  her  interest,  whatever  it  were,  had  disappeared 
within  doors,  presently  followed  her.  In  the  little 
bit  of  a  hall  below  stood  a  large  something  which 
completely  filled  it  up;  and  on  one  side  and  on 
the  other,  Mrs.  Marble  and  Mrs.  Cord  were  taking 
off  the  wrappings  in  which  it  was  enfolded. 

"  Well,  I  declare ! "  said  the  former,  when  they 
had  done.  "  Aint  that  elegant !  " 

"Just  like  him,"  said  Mrs.  Cord.  "I  guessed 
this  was  coming,  or  something  like  it." 

"  What  is  it?  "  asked  Rotha. 

"  How  much  does  a  thing  like  that  cost,  now  ?  " 
Mrs.  Marble  went  on.  "  Oh  see  the  dust  on  it ! 
There's  a  half  bushel  or  less.  Here — wait  till  I 
get  my  brush. — How  is  it  ever  to  go  up  stairs? 
that's  what  I'm  lookin'  at." 

Help  had  to  be  called  in ;  and  meantime  Eotha 
rushed  up  stairs  and  informed  her  mother  that  a 
chair  was  come  for  her  that  was  like  nothing  she 
had  ever  seen  in  her  life ;  "  soft  all  over,"  as  Rotha 
expressed  it;  "back  and  sides  and  all  soft  as  a 
pillow,  and  yet  harder  than  a  pillow ;  like  as  if  it 
were  on  springs  everywhere; "  which  was  no  doubt 
the  truth  of  the  case.  "It's  like  getting  into  a 
nest,  mother;  I  sat  down  in  it;  there's  no  hard 
place  anywhere;  there's  no  wood  to  it,  that  you 
can  see." 

When  a  little  later  the  chair  made  its  appear- 
ance, and  Mrs.  Carpenter  sank  down  into  its 
springy  depths,  it  is  a  pity  that  Mr.  Digby 


116  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

could  not  have  heard  the  low  long-drawn  '  Oh  ! — ' 
of  satisfaction  and  relief  and  wonder  together, 
which  came  from  her  lips.  Rotha  stood  and 
looked  at  her.  Mrs.  Carpenter  was  resting,  in  a 
very  abandonment  of  rest;  but  in  the  abandonment 
of  the  moment  shewing,  as  she  did  not  use  to 
shew  it,  the  great  enervation  and  prostration  of 
her  system.  Her  head,  leaning  back  on  the  soft 
support  it  found,  her  hands  laid  exhaustedly  on 
one  side  and  on  the  other,  the  motionless  pose 
of  her  whole  person,  struck  Rotha  with  some 
strange  new  consciousness. 

"Is  it  good?"  she  asked  shortly. 

"  Very  !  "     The  word  was  almost  a  sigh. 

"  What  makes  you  so  weak  to-day  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  weaker  than  usual." 

"  You  don't  ahvaj^s  look  like  that." 

"  She's  never  had  anything  like  that  to  rest  in 
before,"  Mrs.  Cord  suggested.  "A  bed  aint  like 
one  o'  them  chairs,  for  supportin'  one  everywhere 
alike.  You  let  her  rest,  Rotha.  Will  you  have 
an  oyster,  dear  ?  " 

Rotha  sat  down  at  the  corner  of  the  fireplace 
and  stared  at  her  mother;  taking  the  oyster,  and 
yet  not  relinquishing  that  air  of  helpless  lassitude. 
She  was  not  sewing  either;  and  had  not  been 
sewing,  Rotha  remembered,  except  by  snatches, 
for  several  days  past.  Rotha  sat  and  gazed  at 
her,  an  anxious  shadow  falling  upon  her  features. 

"You  needn't  look  like  that  at  her,"  said  the 
good  woman  who  was  preparing  Mrs.  Carpenter's 


PRIVATE  TUITION.  117 

glass  of  wine;  "she'll  be  rested  now  in  a  little,  and 
feel  nicely.  She's  been  a  wantin'  this,  or  some- 
thing o'  this  sort;  but  there  aint  nothing  better 
than  one  o'  them  spring  chairs,  for  resting  your 
back  and  your  head  and  every  inch  of  you  at  once. 
Now  she's  got  her  oyster  and  somethin'  else,  and 
she'll  pick  up,  you'll  see." 

"  How  good  it  is  you  came  to  live  here,"  said  the 
sick  woman.  "  I  do  not  know  what  we  should  do 
without  you.  You  seem  to  understand  just  how 
everything  ought  to  be  done." 

"  Mother,"  said  Eotha,  "  do  you  think  I  couldn't 
take  care  of  you  just  as  well?  Didn't  I,  before 
Mrs.  Cord  came  ?  " 

"You  haven't  had  quite  so  much  experience,  you 
see,"  put  in  the  latter. 

"  Didn't  I,  mother  ?  "  the  girl  said  passionately. 

Mrs.  Carpenter  answered  only  by  opening  her 
arms;  and  Rotha  coming  into  them,  sat  down 
lightly  upon  her  mother's  lap  and  hid  her  head 
on  her  bosom.  A  shadow  of,  she  knew  not  what, 
had  fallen  across  her,  and  she  was  very  still.  Mrs. 
Carpenter  folded  her  arms  close  about  her  child; 
and  so  they  sat  for  a  good  while.  Mother  arid 
daughter,  each  had  her  own  thoughts;  but  those 
of  the  one  were  dim  and  confused  as  ever  thoughts 
could  be.  The  other's  were  sharp  and  clear.  Ro- 
tha had  an  uneasy  sense  that  her  mother's  strength 
was  not  gaining  but  losing;  an  uneasy  impatience 
of  her  lassitude  and  powerlessness,  which  yet  she 
could  not  at  all  read.  Mrs.  Carpenter  read  it  well. 


118  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

She  knew  of  a  surety  that  her  days  were  numbered ; 
and  not  only  so,  but  that  the  number  of  them  was 
running  out.  Many  cares  she  had  not,  in  view  of 
this  fact;  but  one  importunate,  overwhelming,  in- 
tolerable, were  it  not  that  the  mother's  faith  was 
fixed  where  faith  is  never  disappointed.  Even  so, 
she  was  human;  and  the  question,  what  would  be 
the  fate  of  her  little  daughter  when  she  herself  was 
gone,  pressed  hard  and  pressed  constantly,  and 
found  no  solution.  So  the  two  were  sitting,  in 
each  other's  arms,  mute  and  thoughtful,  when  Mr. 
Digby  came  in. 

Kotha  did  not  stir,  and  he  came  up  to  them,  bent 
down  by  the  side  of  the  chair  and  took  Mrs.  Car- 
penter's hand.  If  he  put  the  usual  question,  Mrs. 
Carpenter  did  not  answer  it;  her  eyes  met  his  si- 
lently. There  was  a  power  of  grateful  love  and 
also  of  grave  foreboding  in  her  quiet  face ;  one  of 
those  looks  which  from  an  habitually  self-contained 
spirit  come  with  so  much  power  on  any  one  capable 
of  understanding  them.  The  young  man's  eyes 
fell  from  her  to  Rotha;  the  two  faces  were  very 
near  each  other;  and  for  the  first  time  Rotha's  de- 
fiance gave  place  to  a  little  bit  of  liking.  She  had 
not  seen  her  mother's  look;  but  she  had  watched 
Mr.  Digby's  eyes  as  they  answered  it,  in  their  ear 
nest,  intent  expression,  and  then  as  the  eyes  came 
to  her  she  felt  the  warm  ray  of  kindness  and  sym- 
pathy which  beamed  from  them.  A  moment  it  was, 
but  Rotha  was  Mr.  Digby's  opponent  no  more  from 
that  time. 


PRIVATE  TUITION.  119 

"  You  seern  to  be  having  a  pleasant  rest,"  he 
remarked  in  his  usual  calm  way.  "I  hope  you 
have  got  all  your  work  done  for  me  ?  " 

"  1  never  do  rest  till  my  work  is  done,"  said  the 
girl. 

"That  is  a  very  good  plan.  Will  you  prove 
the  fact  on  the  present  occasion  ?  " 

Rotha  unwillingly  left  her  place. 

"  Mr.  Digby,  what  sort  of  a  chair  is  this  ?  " 

"A  spring  chair." 

"It  is  a  very  good  thing." 

"I  am  glad  it  meets  your  approbation." 

"  It  meets  mother's  too.  Do  you  see  how  she 
rests  in  it  ?  " 

"Does  she  rest?"  asked  the  young  man,  rather 
of  Mrs.  Carpenter  than  of  her  daughter. 

"  All  the  body  can,"  she  answered  with  a  faint 
smile. 

"  '  Underneath  are  the  everlasting  arms ' — "  he 
said. 

But  that  word  caused  a  sudden  gush  of  tears  on 
the  sick  woman's  part ;  she  hid  her  face ;  and  Mr. 
Digby  called  off  Rotha  at  once  to  her  recitations. 
He  kept  her  very  busy  at  them  for  some  time; 
Latin  and  arithmetic  and  grammar  came  under 
review ;  and  then  he  proceeded  to  put  a  pen  in  her 
hand  and  give  her  a  dictation  lesson;  criticised  her 
handwriting,  set  her  a  copy,  and  fully  engrossed 
Rotha's  eyes  and  mind. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A  LEGACY. 

MOTHEK,"  said  Eotha,  when  their  visiter  was 
again  gone  and  her  copy  was  done  and  she 
had  returned  to  her  mother's  side,  "  I  never  knew 
before  to-day  that  Mr.  Digby  has  handsome  eyes." 

"How  did  you  find  it  out  to-day? " 

"  I  had  a  good  look  at  them,  and  they  looked  at 
me  so." 

"  How  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know — as  if  they  meant  a  good  deal, 
'and  good.  Don't  you  think  he  has  handsome  eyes, 
mother  ?  " 

"  I  always  knew  that.  He  is  a  very  fine-looking 
man  altogether." 

"Is  he?  I  suppose  he  is.  Only  he  likes  to  have 
his  own  way." 

"I  wonder  if  somebody  else  doesn't,  that  I 
know?" 

"That's  the  very  thing,  mother.  If  I  didn't,  I 
suppose  I  shouldn't  care.  But  when  Mr.  Digby 
says  anything,  he  always  looks  as  if  he  expected  it 
to  be  just  so,  and  everybody  to  mind  him." 

Mrs.  Carpenter  could  not  help  laughing,  albeit 
(120) 


A  LEGACY.  121 

she  was  by  no  means  in  a  laughing  mood.  Her 
laugh  was  followed  by  a  sigh. 

"What  makes  you  draw  a  long  breath,  mother?" 

"  I  wish  you  could  govern  that  temper  of  yours, 
my  child." 

"Why,  mother?  Haven't  I  as  good  a  right  to 
my  own  way  as  Mr.  Digby,  or  anybody  ?  " 

"Few  people  can  have  their  own  way  in  the 
world;  and  a  woman  least  of  alL" 

"Why?" 

"  She  generally  has  to  mind  the  will  of  somebody 
else." 

"  But  that  isn't  fair." 

"  It  is  the  way  things  are." 

"Mother,  it  may  be  the  way  with  some  people; 
but  /  have  got  nobody  to  mind  ?  " 

"  Your  mother  ? — " 

"O  yes;  but  that  isn't  it.  You  are  a  woman. 
There"  is  no  man  I  must  mind." 

"  If  you  ever  grow  up  and  marry  somebody, 
there  will  be." 

"  I  would  never  marry  anybody  I  had  to  mind  !  " 
said  the  girl  energetically. 

"You  are  the  very  person  that  would  do  it,"  said 
the  mother;  putting  her  hand  fondly  upon  Rotha's 
cheek.  "My  little  daughter! — If  only  I  knew 
that  you  were  willing  to  obey  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  I  could  be  easy  about  you." 

"  And  aren't,  you  easy  about  me  ?  " 

"  No," — said  the  mother  sadly. 

"  Would  you  be  easy  if  I  was  a  Christian  ?  " 


122  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Mrs.  Carpenter  nodded.     There  was  a  pause. 

"  I  would  like  to  be  a  Christian,  mother,  if  it 
would  make  you  feel  easy;  but — somehow — I  don't 
want  to." 

"I  know  that." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  Because  you  hold  off.  If  you  were  once  will- 
ing, the  thing  would  be  done." 

There  was  silence  again;  till  Kotha  suddenly 
broke  it  by  asking, 

"  Mother,  can  I  help  my  will  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Why!  If  I  don't  want  to  be  a  Christian,  can  I 
make  myself  want  to  ?  " 

"  That  seems  to  me  a  foolish  question,"  said  her 
mother.  "  Suppose  you  do  not  want  to  do  some- 
thing I  tell  you  to  do;  need  that  hinder  your 
obeying  ?  " 

"  But  this  is  different." 

"  I  do  not  see  how  it  is  different." 

"What  is  being  a  Christian,  then  ?" 

"You  know,  Rotha." 

"  But  tell  me,  mother.     I  don't  know  if  I  know." 

"  You  ought  to  know.  A  Christian  is  one  who 
loves  and  serves  the  Lord  Jesus." 

"  And  then  he  can't  do  what  he  has  a  mind  to," 
said  Rotha. 

"Yes,  he  can;  unless  it  is  something  wrong." 

"Well,  he  can't  do  what  he  has  a  mind  to;  he 
must  always  be  asking." 

"That  is  not  hard,  if  one  loves  the  Lord." 


A  LEGACY.  123 

"But  I  don't  love  him,  mother." 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Carpenter  sadly. 

"  Can  I  make  myself  love  him  ?  " 

"No;  but  that  is  foolish  talk." 

"  I  don't  see  why  it  is  foolish,  I  am  sure.  I  wish 
I  did  love  him,  if  it  would  make  you  feel  better." 

"  I  should  not  have  a  care  left ! "  said  Mrs.  Car- 
penter, with  a  sort  of  breath  of  longing. 

"  Why  not,  mother  ?  " 

"Get  the  Bible  and  read  the  121st  psalm, — 
slowly." 

Eotha  obeyed. 

" '  I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills,  from 
whence  cometh  my  help.  My  help  cometh  from 
the  Lord,  which  made  heaven  and  earth ' " — 

"There!  if  you  were  one  of  the  Lord's  dear 
children,  you  would  say  that;  that  would  be  true 
of  you.  Now  go  on,  and  see  what  the  Lord  says 
to  it;  see  what  would  follow." 

Rotha  went  on. 

'"He  will  not  suffer  thy  foot  to  be  moved; 
he  that  keepeth  thee  will  not  slumber.  Behold, 
he  that  keepeth  Israel  shall  neither  slumber  nor 
sleep.' — Israel,  mother." 

"  The  true  Israel  are  the  Lord's  true  children,  of 
any  nation." 

"Are  they?  Well — 'The  Lord  is  thy  keeper; 
the  Lord  is  thy  shade  upon  thy  right  hand;  the 
sun  shall  not  smite  thee  by  day,  nor  the  moon  by 
night.  The  Lord  shall  preserve  thee  from  all  evil ; 
he  shall  preserve  thy  soul.  The  Lord  shall  preserve 


124  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

thy  going  out  and  thy  coming  in,  from  this  time 
forth,  and  even  for  evermore.  Praise  ye  the  Lord.'" 

"Would  anybody  be  well  kept  that  was  kept 
so?"  Mrs.  Carpenter  broke  forth,  with  the  tears 
running  down  her  face.  "  0  my  little  Rotha !  my 
little  daughter!  if  I  knew  you  in  that  care,  how 
blessed  I  should  be ! " 

The  tears  streamed,  and  Mrs.  Carpenter  in  vain 
tried  to  wipe  them  dry.  Rotha  looked  on,  troubled, 
and  a  little  conscience-stricken. 

"Mother,"  she  began,  "don't  he  take  care  of 
anybody  except  Christians  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Carpenter;  "he  takes  care  of 
the  children  of  Christians;  and  so  I  have  faith 
that  he  will  take  care  of  you ;  but  it  is  not  just  so. 
If  you  will  not  come  to  him  now,  he  may  take 
painful  ways  to  bring  you;  if  you  will  not  trust 
him  now,  he  may  cut  away  everything  else  you 
trust  to,  till  you  flee  to  him  for  help.  But  I  wish 
you  would  take  the  easier  way." 

"But  can  I  help  my  will?"  said  Rotha  again, 
holding  fast  to  that  tough  argument.  "  What  can 
I  do?" 

"I  cannot  tell.  You  had  better  ask  Mr.  Digby. 
I  am  not  able  for  any  more  questions  just  now." 

"  Mother.  I'll  bring  you  your  milk,"  said  Rotha, 
rather  glad  of  a  diversion.  "  Mother,  do  you  think 
Mr.  Digby  can  answer  all  sorts  of  questions  ?  " 

"  Better  than  I  can." 

She  brought  her  mother  the  glass  of  milk  and 
the  biscuit  and  sat  watching  her  while  she  took 


A  LEGACY.  125 

them.  She  noticed  the  thin  hands,  the  exhausted 
look,  the  weary  attitude,  the  pale  face.  What  state 
of  things  was  this?  Her  mother  eating  biscuit 
and  oysters  got  with  another  person's  money;  do- 
ing no  work,  or  next  to  none;  living  in  lodgings, 
but  apparently  without  the  prospect  of  earning  the 
means  to  pay  her  rent;  too  feeble  to  do  much  but 
rest  in  that  spring  chair. 

"Mother,"  Botha  began,  with  a  lurking,  unrec- 
ognized feeling  of  anxiety — "  I  wish  you  would 
make  haste  and  get  well !  " 

Mrs.  Carpenter  was  eating  biscuit,  and  made  no 
reply. 

"Don't  you  think  you  are  a  little  better?  " 

"  Not  exactly  to-day." 

"  What  would  do  you  good  ?  " 

"Nothing  that  you  could  give  me,  darling.  I 
am  very  comfortable.  I  wonder  to  see  myself  so 
supplied  with  everything  I  can  possibly  want. 
Look  at  this  chair !  It  is  almost  better  than  all 
the  rest." 

"That  and  the  fire." 

"  Yes;  the  blessed  fire  !     It  is  so  good !  " 

"  But  I  wish  you'd  get  well,  mother ! "  Rotha 
said  with  a  half  sigh. 

Mrs.  Carpenter  made  no  answer. 

"I  don't  see  how  we  are  going  to  do,  if  you  don't 
get  well  soon,"  Rotha  went  on  with  a  kind  of  im- 
patient uneasiness.  "  What  shall  we  do  for  money, 
mother?  there's  the  rent  and  everything." 

"You  forget  what  you  have  just  been  reading, 


126  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

my  child.  Do  you  think  the  words  mean  nothing? 
— '  The  Lord  is  thy  keeper ;  the  Lord  is  thy  shade 
upon  thy  right  hand.  The  sun  shall  not  smite 
thee  by  day,  nor  the  moon  by  night.' " 

"  But  that  don't  pay  rent,"  said  Kotha. 

"  You  think  the  Lord  can  do  great  things,  and 
cannot  do  little  things.  I  can  trust  him  for  all." 

"  Then  why  cannot  you  trust  him  for  me  ?  " 

"I  do." 

"  Then  why  are  you  troubled  ?  " 

"  Because  here  your  self-will  comes  in ;  and  you 
may  have  to  go  through  hard  times  before  it  is 
broken." 

' '  Broken  ?     My  self-will  broken  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  I  do  not  want  to  be  a  creature  without  a  will. 
I  do  not  like  such  creatures." 

"You  must  talk  to  Mr.  Digby,  Eotha.  I  am 
too  tired." 

"  I  won't  tire  you  any  more,  mother  dear !  But 
I  don't  see  why  I  should  talk  to  Mr.  Digby." 

And  for  a  few  moments  Eotha  was  silent.  Then 
she  broke  out  again. 

"  Mother,  don't  you  think  if  you  could  get  back 
to  Medwayville  you  would  be  well  again  ?  " 

"  I  shall  never  go  back  to  Medwayville,"  the 
sick  woman  said  faintly. 

"But  if  you  could  get  into  the  country  some- 
where ?  out  of  this  horrid  dust  and  these  mean  lit- 
tle streets.  O  mother,  think  of  the  great  fields  of 
grass,  and  the  trees,  and  the  flowers !  " 


A  LEGACY.  127 

"  Darling,  I  am  very  well  here.  Suppose  you 
take  the  poker  and  punch  that  lump  of  coal,  so 
that  it  may  blaze  up  a  little." 

Rotha  punched  the  lump  of  coal,  and  sat  watch- 
ing the  brilliant  jets  of  flame  that  leapt  from  it, 
sending  a  gentle  illumination  all  through  the 
room ;  revolving  in  her  mind  whether  it  might  be 
possible  by  and  by  to  get  her  mother  among  the 
sights  and  sounds  of  the  country  again. 

As  the  spring  advanced  however,  though  the' 
desirableness  of  such  a  move  might  be  more  appa- 
rent, the  difficulty  of  it  as  evidently  increased. 
The  close,  stifling  air  of  the  city,  when  the  warm 
days  came,  was  hard  to  bear  for  the  sick  woman, 
and  hard  in  two  ways  for  Rotha.  But  Mrs.  Car- 
penter's strength  failed  more  and  more.  There 
was  no  question  now  of  her  sewing;  she  did  not 
attempt  it.  She  sat  all  day  in  her  spring  easy 
chair,  by  the  window  or  before  the  fire  as  the  day 
happened  to  be,  now  and  then  turning  over  the 
leaves  of  her  Bible  which  always  lay  open  before 
her.  And  now  Mr.  Digby  when  he  came  would 
often  take  the  book  and  read  to  her;  and  even 
talks  of  some  length  would  grow  up  out  of  the 
reading;  talks  that  seemed  delightful  to  both  the 
parties  concerned,  though  Rotha  could  not  under- 
stand much  of  it.  Little  by  little  the  room  had 
entirely  changed  its  character,  and  no  longer 
seemed  to  be  a  part  of  Mrs.  Marble's  domain.  A 
fluffy  rug  lay  under  Mrs.  Carpenter's  feet;  a  pretty 
lamp  stood  on  the  table ;  a  screen  of  Japanese  man- 


128  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

ufacture,  endlessly  interesting  to  Kotha,  stood  be- 
tween the  weary  eyes  and  the  fire,  when  there  was 
a  fire ;  and  Mrs.  Carpenter  herself  was  enveloped 
in  a  warm,  soft  fleecy  shawl.  As  the  warm  weather 
came  on  indeed,  this  had  to  give  place  to  some- 
thing lighter.  Then  Mr.  Digby  brought  fruit; 
early  fruit,  and  foreign  fruit;  then  a  little  India  tea 
caddy  of  very  nice  tea  stood  on  the  table ;  tea  such 
as  in  all  her  life  Mrs.  Carpenter  had  never  drunk 
till  now.  She  had  long  ceased  to  make  any  ob- 
jection to  whatever  Mr.  Digby  pleased  to  do; 
taking  it  all  as  simply  and  as  graciously  as  a  child. 
Much  more  than  her  own  child.  However,  Eotha 
was  mollified  towards  their  benefactor  from  that 
day  above  mentioned ;  and  if  she  looked  on  won- 
deringly,  and  even  a  little  jealously,  at  his  unre- 
sisted  assuming  of  the  direction  of  their  affairs, 
she  no  more  openly  rebelled. 

Mr.  Digby,  it  may  be  remarked,  kept  her  so  per- 
sistently busy,  that  she  had  small  time  to  disturb 
herself  with  any  sort  of  speculations.  Lessons  were 
lively.  History  was  added  to  Latin  and  arithmetic ; 
Rotha  had  a  good  deal  to  read,  and  troublesome 
sums  to  manage;  and  finally  every  remnant  of 
spare  leisure  was  filled  up  by  a  demand  for  writ- 
ing. Mr.  Digby  did  not  frighten  her  by  talking 
of  compositions,  but  he  desired  her  to  prepare  now 
an  abstract  of  the  history  of  the  crusades,  now  of 
the  Stuart  dynasty,  now  of  the  American  revolu- 
tion; and  now  again  of  the  rise  of  the  art  of  print- 
ing, or  the  use  and  manufacture  of  gunpowder. 


A  LEGACY.  129 

Studying  out  these  subjects,  pondering  them,  writ- 
ing and  writing  over  her  sketches,  Rotha  was 
both  very  busy  and  very  happy;  and  then  the 
handing  over  her  papers  to  Mr.  Digby,  and  his 
reading  them,  and  his  strictures  upon  them,  were  a 
matter  of  intense  interest  and  delight;  for  though 
Rotha  trembled  with  excitement  she  was  still 
more  thrilled  with  pleasure.  For  she  was  just  at 
the  age  when  the  mind  begins  to  open  to  a  rapt- 
urous consciousness  of  its  powers,  and  at  the 
same  time  of  the  wonderful  riches  of  the  fields 
open  to  the  exercise  of  them.  In  her  happy  ignor- 
ance, in  her  blessed  inexperience,  Rotha  did  not 
see  what  the  days  were  doing  with  her  mother; 
and  if  occasionally  a  flash  of  unwelcome  perception 
would  invade  her  mind,  with  the  unbounded  pre- 
sumption of  her  young  years  she  shut  her  eyes  and 
refused  to  believe  in  it.  But  all  the  while  Mrs. 
Carpenter  was  growing  feebler  and  wasting  to 
more  of  a  shadow.  Rotha  still  comforted  herself 
that  she  had  "  a  nice  colour  in  her  cheeks." 

It  came  to  be  the  latter  end  of  June.  Windows 
were  open;  what  would  have  been  delicious  sum- 
mer air  came  in  laden  with  the  mingled  odours  of 
street  mud  and  street  dust,  garbage,  the  scents  of 
butcher  stalls  and  grocery  shops,  and  far  worse, 
the  indefinable  atmospheric  tokens  of  poor  living 
and  uncleanness.  Now  and  then  a  whiff  of  more . 
energy  brought  a  reminder  not  quite  perverted  of 
the  places  where  flowers  grow  and  cows  pasture 
and  birds  sing.  It  only  served  to  make  the  next 


130  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

breath  more  heavy  and  disappointing.  Mrs.  Car- 
penter sat  by  the  window  to  get  all  the  freshness 
she  could;  albeit  with  the  air  came  also  the  sounds 
from  without ;  the  creak  or  the  rattle  of  wheels  on  the 
pavement,  the  undistinguishable  words  of  a  rough 
voice  here  and  there,  the  shrill  cry  of  the  straw- 
berry seller,  the  confused,  mixed,  inarticulate  din 
of  the  great  city  all  around.  A  sultry  heaviness 
seemed  to  rest  upon  everything,  disheartening  and 
depressing  to  anybody  whose  physical  powers  were 
not  strong  or  his  nerves  not  well  strung  for  the 
work  and  struggle  of  life.  There  was  a  pump  over 
the  way;  and  from  time  to  time  the  creak  of  its 
handle  was  to  be  heard,  and  then  the  helpless  drip 
and  splash  of  the  last  runnings  of  the  water  falling 
into  the  gutter,  after  the  applicant  had  gone  away 
with  his  or  her  pail.  It  mocked  Mrs.  Carpenter's 
ear  with  the  recollection  of  running  brooks,  and  of 
a  certain  cool  deep  well  into  which  the  bucket  used 
to  go  down  from  the  end  of  a  long  pole  and  come 
up  sparkling  with  drops  of  the  clear  water. 

"  Well,  how  do  you  do  ?  "  said  the  alert  voice  of 
Mrs.  Marble  by  her  side.  "  Sort  o'  close,  aint  it  ?  " 

"Rather." 

"  The  city  aint  a  place  for  Christians  to  live  in, 
when  it  gets  to  this  time;  anyhow,  not  for  Chris- 
tians that  aint  good  and  strong.  I'd  like  to  put 
you  out  to  pasture  somewheres." 

"  She  won't  go,"  said  Rotha  longingly. 

"  I  am,  very  comfortable  here,"  said  the  invalid 
faintly. 


A  LEGACY.  131 

"  Comfortable !  well,  I  feel  as  if  you  ought  to  be 
top  of  a  mountain  somewheres;  out  o'  this.  Td 
like  to;  but  I  guess  I'm  a  fixtur.  Mr.  Digby1  d 
find  ways  and  means,  I'll  engage,"  she  said,  eyeing 
the  sick  woman  with  kindly  interest  and  concern, 
who  however  only  shook  her  head. 

"  Could  you  eat  your  strawberries  ?  "  she  asked 
presently. 

"  A  few  of  them.     They  were  very  nice." 

"  I  never  see  such  berries.  They  must  have  been 
raised  somewhere  in  Gulliver's  Brobdignay  ;  and 
Gulliver  don't  send  'em  round  in  these  parts.  I 
thought,  maybe  you'd  pay  'em  the  compliment  to 
eat  'em  ;  but  when  appetite's  gone,  it's  no  use  to 
have  big  strawberries.  That's  what  I  thought  a 
breath  of  hilly  air  somewheres  would  do  for  you.' 

And  Mrs.  Marble  presently  went  away,  shaking 
her  head,  just  as  Mr.  Digby  came  in;  exchanging 
a  look  with  him  as  she  passed.  Mr.  Digby  came 
up  to  the  window,  and  greeted  Mrs.  Carpenter  with 
the  gentle  affectionate  reverence  he  always  shewed 
her. 

"  No  stronger  to-day?  "  said  he. 

"She  won't  go  into  the  country,  Mr.  Digby," 
said  Rotha. 

"  You  may  go  and  get  a  walk  at  least,  my  child," 
Mrs.  Carpenter  said.  "Ask  Mrs.  Cord  to  be  so 
kind  as  to  take  you.  Now  while  Mr.  Digby  is 
here,  I  shall  not  be  alone.  Can  you  stay  half  an 
hour  ?  "  she  asked  him  suddenly. 

He  gave  ready  assent;  and  Rotha,  weary  of  her 


132  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

cooped-up  life,  eagerly  sought  Mrs.  Cord  and  went 
off  for  her  walk.  Mrs.  Carpenter  and  Mr.  Digby 
were  left  alone. 

"I  am  not  stronger,"  the  former  began  as  the 
house  door  closed.  "  I  am  losing  strength,  I  think, 
every  day.  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you;  and  it  had 
better  be  done  at  once." 

She  paused,  and  he  waited.  The  trickle  of  the 
water  from  the  pump  came  to  her  ear  again,  stir- 
ring memories  oddly. 

"  You  asked  me  the  other  day,  whether  I  had  no 
friends  in  the  city.  1  told  you  I  had  not.  I  told 
you  the  truth,  but  not  the  whole  truth.  Before 
Rotha  I  could  not  say  all  I  wished.  I  have  a  sister 
living  in  New  York." 

"  A  sister ! "  Mr.  Digby  echoed  the  word  in  great 
surprise.  "  She  knows  of  your  being  here  ?  " 

"She  does  not." 

"  Surely  she  ought  to  know." 

"  No,  I  think  not.  I  told  you  the  truth  the  other 
day.  I  have  not  a  friend,  here  or  elsewhere.  Not 
what  you  call  a  friend.  Only  you." 

"  But  your  sister  ?     How  is  that  possible  ?  " 

Mrs.  Carpenter  sighed.  "  I  had  better  tell  you 
all  about  it,  and  then  you  will  know  how  to  under- 
stand me.  Perhaps.  I  can  hardly  understand  it 
myself." 

There  was  a  pause  again.  The  sick  woman  was 
evidently  looking  back  in  thought  over  days  and 
years  and  the  visions  of  what  had  been  in  them. 
Her  gentle,  quiet  eyes  had  grown  intent,  and  over 


A  LEGACY.  133 

her  brows  there  was  a  fold  in  her  forehead  that 
Mr.  Digby  had  never  seen  there  before.  But  there 
was  no  trembling  of  the  mouth.  That  was  steady 
and  grave  and  firm. 

"  There  were  two  of  us,"  she  said  at  last.  "  My 
father  had  but  us  two.  0  how  long  it  is  ago ! — 

She  was  silent  again  with  her  thoughts,  and 
Mr.  Digby  again  waited.  It  was  a  patient  face 
he  was  looking  at ;  a  gentle  face ;  not  a  face  that 
spoke  of  any  experience  that  could  be  called  bit- 
ter, yet  the  patient  lines  told  of  something  endured 
or  something  resigned;  it  might  be  both.  The 
last  two  years  of  experience,  with  a  sister  in  the 
same  city,  must  needs  furnish  occasion.  But  Mrs. 
Carpenter's  brow  was  quiet,  except  for  that  one 
fold  in  it.  Yet  she  seemed  to  have  forgotten  what 
she  had  meant  to  say,  and  only  after  a  while 
pulled  herself  up,  as  it  were,  and  began  again. 

"  It  is  not  so  long  as  it  seems,  I  suppose,  for 
I  am  not  very  old;  but  it  seems  long.  We  two 
were  girls  together  at  home,  and  my  father  was 
living;  and  I  knew  nothing  about  the  world." 

"Was  that  here?  in  New  York?"  Mr.  Digby 
asked,  by  way  of  helping  her  on. 

"0  no.  I  knew  nothing  about  New  York.  I 
had  never  been  here.  No;  our  home  was  not  far 
from  Tanfield;  up  in  this  state,  near  the  Connecti- 
cut border.  We  lived  a  little  out  of  the  town, 
and  had  a  nice  place.  My  father  was  very  well 
off  indeed.  I  wanted  for  nothing  in  those  days."' 
She  sighed. 


134  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"The  world  is  a  strange  place,  Mr.  Digby !  I 
cannot  comprehend,  even  now,  how  things  should 
have  gone  as  they  did.  We  lived  as  happy  as 
anybody;  until  a  gentleman,  a  young  lawyer  of 
New  York,  began  to  make  visits  at  our  house. 
He  paid  particular  attention  to  me  at  first;  but 
it  was  of  no  use;  I  had  learned  to  know  Mr.  Car- 
penter, and  nobody  else  could  be  anything  to  me. 
He  was  a  thriving  lawyer;  a  rising  young  man, 
people  said;  and  my  father  would  have  had  me 
marry  him;  but  I  could  not.  So  then  he  courted 
my  sister.  0  the  splash  of  that  water  from  the 
pump  over  there !  it  keeps  me  thinking  to-day 
of  the  well  behind  our  house — where  it  stood  on 
a  smooth  green  plat  of  grass — and  of  the  trickle 
of  the  water  from  the  buckets  as  they  were  drawn 
up.  Just  because  the  day  is  so  warm,  I  think 
of  those  buckets  of  well  water.  The  well  was 
sixty  feet  deep,  and  the  water  was  clear  and  cold 
and  beautiful — I  never  saw  such  water  anywhere 
else;  and  when  the  bucket  came  slowly  up,  with 
the  moss  on  its  sides  glittering  with  the  wet,  there 
was  refreshment  in  the  very  look  of  it.  Tanfield 
seems  to  me  a  hundred  thousand  miles  away  from 
Jane  Street;  and  those  times  about  a  thousand 
years  ago.  I  wonder,  how  will  all  our  life  seem 
when  we  look  back  upon  it  from  the  other  side '/ " 

"  Very  much  as  objects  seen  under  a  microscope, 
I  fancy." 

"Do  you?     Why?" 

"In  the  clear  understanding  of  details,  and  in 


A  LEGACY.  135 

the  new  perception  of  the  relative  bearing  and 
importance  of  parts." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so.  Things  are  very  mixed  and 
confused  as  we  see  them  here.  Take  what  I  am 
telling  you,  for  instance;  it  is  incredible,  only  that 
it  is  true." 

"  You  have  not  told  me  much  yet,"  said  her 
friend  gently. 

"No.  The  gentleman  I  spoke  of,  the  lawyer, 
he  married  my  sister.  And  then,  when  I  would 
have  married  Mr.  Carpenter,  my  sister  set  herself 
against  it,  and  she  talked  over  my  father  into  her 
views,  and  they  both  opposed  it  all  they  could." 

"  Did  they  give  any  reasons  for  their  opposition  ?  " 

"  0  yes.  Mr.  Carpenter  was  only  a  farmer,  they 
said;  not  my  equal,  and  not  very  well  off.  I 
am  sure  in  all  real  qualities  he  was  much  my 
superior;  but  just  in  the  matter  of  society  it  was 
more  or  less  true.  He  did  not  mix  in  society 
much,  and  did  not  care  for  it;  but  he  had  educa- 
tion and  cultivation  a  great  deal  more  than  many 
that  do;  he  had  read  and  he  had  thought,  and  he 
could  talk  too,  and  well,  to  one  or  two  alone.  But 
they  wanted  me  to  marry  a  rich  man.  1  think 
half  the  trouble  in  the  world  comes  about  money." 

" '  The  love  of  money  is  the  root  of  all  evil,' 
the  Bible  says." 

"  I  believe  it.  There  was  nothing  else  to  be 
said  against  Mr.  Carpenter,  but  that  he  had  not 
money;  if  he  had  had  it,  nobody  would  have  found 
out  that  he  wanted  cultivation,  or  anything  else. 


136  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

But  he  was  a  poor  man.  And  when  I  married 
him,  my  father  cut  me  off  from  all  share  in  the 
inheritance  of  his  property." 

"It  all  fell  to  your  sister?" 

"  Yes.  All.  The  place,  the  old  place,  and  all. 
She  had  everything." 

"And  kept  it." 

"  0  yes.  Of  course.  She  is  a  rich  woman.  Her 
husband  has  prospered  in  his  business;  and  they 
are  very  well  off  now.  They  have  only  one  child, 
too." 

Mrs.  Carpenter  was  silent,  and  Mr.  Digby  paused 
a  minute  or  two  before  he  spoke  again. 

"  Still,  my  dear  friend,  do  you  not  think  your 
sister  would  shew  herself  your  sister,  if  she  knew 
where  you  are  and  how  you  are?  Do  you  not 
think  it  would  be  right  and  kind  to  let  her  know?" 

Mrs.  Carpenter  shook  her  head.  "  No,"  she  said, 
"it  would  be  no  comfort  to  me;  and  you  are  mis- 
taken if  you  think  it  would  be  any  satisfaction  to 
her.  She  is  a  rich  woman.  She  keeps  her  car- 
riage, and  she  has  her  liveried  servants,  and  she 
lives  in  style.  She  would  not  like  to  come  here 
to  see  me." 

"I  cannot  conceive  it,"  said  Mr.  Digby.  "I  think 
you  must  unconsciously  be  doing  her  wrong." 

"  1  tried  her,"  said  Mrs.  Carpenter.  "  I  will  not 
try  her  again.  When  my  husband  got  into  diffi- 
culties, and  his  health  was  giving  way,  and  he 
was  driven  a  little  too  hard,  I  wrote  to  my  sister 
in  New  York  to  ask  her  to  give  us  some  help; 


A  LEGACY.  ,   137 

knowing  that  she  was  abundantly  able  to  do  it, 
without  hurting  herself.  She  sent  me  for  an- 
swer— "  Mrs.  Carpenter  stopped;  the  words  seemed 
to  choke  her;  her  lip  quivered;  and  when  she  be- 
gan to  speak  again  her  voice  was  a  little  hoarse. 

"  She  wrote  me,  that  if  my  husband  died,  she 
would  have  no  objection  to  my  going  back  to  the 
old  place,  and  getting  along  there  as  well  as  I  could ; 
Rotha  and  I." 

One  or  two  sore,  sorrowful  tears  forced  their 
way  out  of  the  speaker's  eyes;  but  she  said  no 
more.  And  Mr.  Digby  did  not  know  what  further 
to  counsel,  and  was  also  silent.  The  silence  lasted 
some  little  time,  while  a  strawberry  seller  was 
making  the  street  ring  with  her  cries  of  "Straw 
....  berrees,"  and  the  hot  air  wafted  in  the  odours 
from  near  and  far,  and  the  water  trickled  from  the 
pump  nose  again.  At  last  Mrs.  Carpenter  began 
again,  with  some  difficulty  and  effort;  not  bodily 
however,  but  mental. 

"  You  have  been  so  exceedingly  kind  to  me,  to 
us,  Mr.  Digby,  I — " 

"Hush,"  he  said.  "Do  not  speak  of  that.  You 
have  done  far  more  for  me  than  I  ever  can  do  for 
you?" 

"  I  ?     No.     I  have  done  nothing." 

"You  saved  my  father's  life." 

"  Your  father's  life  ?  You  are  under  some  mis- 
take. I  never  knew  a  Mr.  Digby  till  I  knew  you 
I  never  even  heard  the  name." 

"You  knew  a  Mr.  Southwode,"  said  he  smiling 


138   »        THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  South wode  ?  Southwode !  The  English  gen- 
tleman !  But  you  are  not  his  son  ?  " 

"I  am  his  son.  I  am  Digby-Southwode.  I  took 
my  mother's  name  for  certain  business  reasons." 

"And  you  are  his  son  !  How  wonderful !  That 
strange  gentleman's  sou ! — But  I  did  not  do  so 
much  for  your  father,  Mr.  Southwode.  You  have 
done  everything  for  me." 

"I  wish  I  could  do  more,"  said  he  shortly. 

"  I  am  ashamed  to  ask, — and  yet,  I  was  going 
to  ask  you  to  do  something  more — a  last  service — 
for  me.  It  is  too  much  to  ask." 

"I  am  sure  it  is  not  that,"  he  said  with  great 
gentleness.  "  Let  me  know  what  you  wish." 

Mrs.  Carpenter  hesitated.  "Rotha  does  not 
know," — she  said  then.  "  She  has  no  idea — " 

"Of  what?" 

"  She  has  no  idea  that  I  am  going  to  leave  her." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  is  true." 

"And  it  will  be  soon  Mr.  Digby." 

"  Perhaps  not;  but  what  is  it  you  wish  of  me?  " 

"Tell  her — "  whispered  Mrs.  Carpenter. 

The  young  man  might  feel  startled,  or  possibly 
an  inevitable  strong  objection  to  the  service  de- 
manded of  him.  He  made  no  answer;  and  Mrs. 
Carpenter  soon  went  on. 

"It  is  wrong  to  ask  it,  and  yet  whom  shall  I 
ask?  I  would  not  have  her  learn  it  from  any  of 
the  people  in  the  house;  though  they  are  kind, 
they  are  not  discreet;  and  Rotha  would  in  any 
case  come  straight  to  me ;  and  I — cannot  bear  it. 


A  LEGACY.  139 

She  is  a  passionate  child;  violent  in  her  feelings 
and  in  the  expression  of  them.  I  have  been  think- 
ing about  it  day  and  night  lately,  and  I  cannot  get 
my  courage  up  to  face  the  first  storm  of  her  dis- 
tress. My  poor  child  !  she  is  not  very  fitted  to  go 
through  the  world  alone." 

"  What  are  your  plans  for  her?" 

"  I  am  unable  to  form  any." 

"  But  you  must  tell  me  what  steps  you  wish  me 
to  take  in  her  behalf — if  there  is  no  one  whom  you 
could  better  trust." 

"  There  is  no  one  whom  I  can  trust  at  all.  Ex- 
cept only  my  Father  in  heaven.  I  trust  him,  or  I 
should  die  before  my  time.  I  thought  my  heart 
would  break,  a  while  ago;  now  I  have  got  over 
that.  Do  you  know  He  has  said,  '  Leave  thy  fa- 
therless children  to  me '  V  " 

Yet  now  the  mother's  tears  were  falling  like 
rain. 

"  I  will  do  the  very  best  I  can,"  said  the  young 
man  at  her  side ;  "  but  I  wish  you  would  give  me 
some  hints,  or  directions,  at  least." 

"  How  can  I  ?  There  lie  but  two  things  before 
me; — that  Mrs.  Cord  should  bring  her  up  and  make 
a  sempstress  of  her;  or  that  Mrs.  Marble  should 
teach  her  to  be  a  mantua-maker;  and  I  am  so  fool- 
ish, I  cannot  bear  the  thought  of  either  thing; 
even  if  they  would  do  it,  which  I  do  not  know." 

"Make  your  mind  easy.  She  shall  be  neither 
the  one  thing  nor  the  other.  Eotha  has  far  too 
good  abilities  for  that.  I  will  not  give  her  to  Mrs. 


140  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Cord's  or  Mrs.  Marble's  oversight.  But  what  would 
you  wish  ?  " 

"I  do  not  know.  I  must  leave  you  to  judge. 
You  can  judge  much  better  than  I.  I  have  no 
knowledge  of  the  world,  or  of  what  is  possible. 
Mrs.  Marble  tells  me  there  are  free  schools  here — " 

"  Of  course  she  shall  go  to  school.  I  will  see  that 
she  does.  And  I  will  see  that  she  is  under  some 
woman's  care  who  can  take  proper  care  of  her. 
Do  not  let  yourself  be  troubled  on  that  score.  I 
promise  you,  you  need  not.  I  will  take  as  good 
care  of  her  as  if  she  were  a  little  sister  of  my 
own." 

There  was  silence  at  first,  the  silence  of  a  heart 
too  full  to  find  words.  Mrs.  Carpenter  sat  with 
her  head  a  little  bowed. 

"  You  will  lose  nothing  by  it,"  she  said  huskily 
after  a  few  minutes.  "There  is  a  promise  some- 
where— " 

But  with  that  she  broke  down  and  cried. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  will  do  with  her !  "  she 
said ;  "  nor  what  anybody  will  do  with  her,  except 
her  mother.  She  is  a  wayward  child;  passionate; 
strong,  and  also  weak,  on  the  side  of  her  affections. 
She  has  never  learned  yet  to  submit  her  will, 
though  for  love  she  is  capable  of  great  devotion. 
She  has  shewed  it  to  me  this  past  winter." 

"  Is  there  any  other  sort  of  devotion  that  is  worth 
much  ?  "  asked  the  young  man. 

-Duty?—" 

"  Surely  the  devotion  of  love  is  better." 


A  LEGACY.  141 

"  Yes — .  But  duty  ought  to  be  recognized  for 
what  it  is." 

"  Nay,  I  think  it  ought  to  be  recognized  for  a 
pleasure.  Here  she  comes. — Well,  Rotha,  was  the 
walk  pleasant  ?  " 

"  No." 

"Indeed?     Why  not?" 

"How  could  it  be,  Mr.  Digby?  Not  a  bit  of 
good  air,  nor  anything  pleasant  to  see;  just  all 
hot  and  dirty." 

"  I  thought  you  said  there  were  some  flowers  in 
front  of  some  of  the  shops  ?  "  her  mother  said. 

"Yes,  mother;  but  they  looked  melancholy." 

"  Did  they  ?  "  said  Mr.  Digby  smiling.  "  Sup- 
pose you  go  with  me  to-morrow,  and  I  will  take 
you  to  the  Park." 

"  0 !  will  you  ?  "  said  Rotha  with  suddenly  open- 
ing eyes.  "  Can  you  ?  " 

"  If  Mrs.  Carpenter  permits." 


CHAPTER   VII. 

MENTAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

THE  next  day  being  again  warm,  Mr.  Digby  did 
not  come  for  Rotha  till  the  afternoon  was  far 
advanced.  They  took  then  one  of  the  street  cars, 
which  would  bring  them  to  the  Park  entrance. 
The  way  was  long  and  the  drive  slow.  It  was  also 
silent,  of  necessity;  and  both  parties  had  leisure 
for  thoughts,  as  well  as  material  enough. 

Rotha  was  at  first  divided  between  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  things,  and  a  somewhat  uneasy  reflection 
upon  her  own  appearance.  She  was  not  in  general 
a  self-conscious  child;  very  much  the  reverse;  but 
to-day  she  was  with  Mr.  Digby,  and  sh»  had  an 
exalted  idea  of  the  requirements  of  everything 
even  remotely  connected  with  him.  She  was  going 
in  his  company;  under  his  charge;  how  did  she 
look?  She  was  not  satisfied  on  that  point.  Mr. 
Digby  himself  was  always  so  nice  and  perfect  in 
his  dress,  she  said  to  herself;  she  ought  to  be  very 
nice  to  go  with  him.  Truly  she  had  put  on  the 
best  she  had;  a  white  cambrick  frock;  it  was  clean 
and  white;  but  Rotha  had  none  but  her  everyday 

brown   straw  hat,    and    she    knew   that   was    not 
(142) 


MENTAL  PHILOSOPHY.  143 

"smart";  and  her  dress,  she  pondered  it  as  she 
went  along,  she  was  sure  it  was  very  old-fashioned 
indeed.  Certainly  it  was  not  made  like  the  dresses 
of  other  girls  of  her  own  age,  whom  she  saw  in 
the  car  or  on  the  sidewalk.  Theirs  were  ruffled; 
hers  was  plain;  theirs  generally  stood  out  in  an 
imposing  manner;  while  her  own  clung  in  slim 
folds  around  her  slim  little  person.  She  concluded 
that  she  could  not  be  in  any  degree  what  Mrs. 
Marble  called  "stylish."  The  exact  meaning  of 
that  word  indeed  Kotha  could  not  define;  unde- 
finedly  she  felt  it  to  be  something  vastly  desirable. 
She  decided  in  her  own  mind  that  Mr.  Digby  was 
stylish;  which  it  is  true  proved  that  the  young 
girl  had  a  nice  feeling  for  things;  since  the  fact, 
which  was  undoubted,  was  entirely  unaccompanied 
by  anything  in  matter  or  manner  of  wearing  which 
could  take  the  vulgar  eye.  Would  he  dislike  going 
in  public,  she  wondered,  with  a  little  figure  like 
herself?  She  hoped  not,  she  thought  not;  but 
thought  it  with  a  curious  independence,  which  I 
am  afraid  was  really  born  of  pride  though  it  took 
the  semblance  of  good  sense. 

Gradually  the  interest  of  other  figures  made  Ro- 
tha  forget  her  own.  They  came  out  from  the  poor 
part  of  the  city  where  she  dwelt;  streets  grew  wide 
and  shops  lofty  and  imposing;  equipages  drove 
along,  outstripping  the  slow-going  car;  and  in 
them,  what  ladies,  and  what  gentlemen,  and  what 
little  girls  now  and  then !  This  was  the  wonder- 
ful New  York,  at  which  she  had  now  and  then 


144  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

had  a  peep;  this  was  something  five  hundred  miles 
removed  from  Jane  Street.  What  sort  of  human 
beings  were  these  ?  and  what  sort  of  life  did  they 
live?  and  did  money  make  all  the  difference,  or 
was  there  some  more  intrinsic  and  essential  dis- 
tinction between  them  and  their  fellows  in  Abing- 
don  Square  ?  At  any  rate,  how  very,  very  much 
better  off  they  were ! 

Mr.  Digby's  musings  had  much  less  to  do  with 
the  surface  of  things.  I  doubt  indeed  if  he  saw 
ought  that  was  before  his  eyes,  all  the  way  to  the 
Park.  Not  even  Rotha  herself;  and  yet  she  was 
the  main  subject  of  his  cogitations.  He  was  feel- 
ing that  his  kindness  to  Mrs.  Carpenter  had  brought 
him  into  difficulties.  The  very  occasion  for  this 
journey  to  the  Park  was  bad  enough;  so  disagree- 
able in  fact  that  he  did  not  like  to  look  at  it,  and 
hardly  had  looked  at  it  until  now;  he  was  going 
as  a  man  goes  into  battle;  and  a  rain  of  bullets, 
he  thought,  would  have  been  easier  to  face.  How 
he  should  accomplish  his  task  he  had  as  yet  no 
idea.  But  supposing  it  done;  and  supposing  all 
the  trouble  past  for  which  he  had  to  prepai-e  Ro- 
tha; what  then?  What  was  he  to  do  with  the 
charge  he  had  assumed  ?  He,  a  young  man  with- 
out a  family,  with  no  proper  home  in  the  country 
of  his  abode,  what  was  he  to  do  with  the  care 
of  a  girl  like  Rotha?  how  should  he  manage  it? 
If  she  had  been  a  little  child  it  would  have  been 
a  more  simple  affair;  but  fourteen  years  old  is  not 
at  all  far  removed  from  seventeen,  and  eighteen. 


MENTAL  PHILOSOPHY.  145 

Where  should  her  home  be?  and  her  future  sphere 
of  life  ?  and  where  was  the  promised  womanly  pro- 
tection under  which  he  was  to  place  her?  He 
gave  a  glance  at  the  girl.  She  was  good  material 
to  work  upon,  that  was  one  alleviation  of  his  task; 
he  had  had  some  practical  proof  of  it,  and  now, 
more  carefully  than  ever  before,  he  looked  for  the 
outward  signs  and  tokens  in  feature  and  expres- 
sion. And  as  Rotha  had  once  declared  that  Mr. 
Digby's  eyes  were  handsome,  he  now  privately 
returned  the  compliment  to  hers.  Yes,  this  child, 
who  had  an  awkward  appearance  as  to  her  figure 
— he  did  not  know  then  that  the  effect  was  due 
to  her  dress — she  had  undoubtedly  fine  eyes.  Poor 
complexion,  he  said  to  himself  after  a  second  glance, 
but  good  eyes.  And  not  merely  in  shape  and  hue; 
they  were  full  of  speculation,  full  of  thought,  full 
of  the  possibilities  of  passion  and  feeling.  There 
was  character  in  them;  and  so  there  was  in  the 
well  formed,  well  closed  mouth.  There  was  re- 
finement too;  the  lines  were  not  those  of  an  un- 
cultured, low-conditioned  nature;  they  were  fine 
and  beautiful.  It  had  never  occurred  to  Mr.  Digby 
before  to  think  how  Rotha  promised  to  be  in  the 
matter  of  looks;  although  he  had  many  a  time 
caught  the  gleam  of  intelligent  fire  in  the  course 
of  her  recitations  and  his  lesson  giving,  and  once 
or  twice  had  seen  that  passion  of  one  kind  or  an- 
other was  at  work.  He  read  now  very  plainly 
that  his  charge,  to  go  back  to  the  old  philosophy 
of  human  nature  which  reckoned  man  to  be  com- 


146  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

posed  of  the  four  elements,  had  a  great  deal  of 
the  fire  and  the  air  in  her  composition,  with  little 
of  the  heaviness  of  the  earth,  and  as  little  as  pos- 
sible of  the  lymphatic  quality.  It  made  his  task 
the  more  interesting,  and  in  so  far  lightened  it; 
but  it  made  it  at  the  same  time  vastly  more  dif- 
ficult. Here  was  a  sensitive,  quick,  passionate, 
independent  nature  to  deal  with ;  how  ever  should 
he  deal  with  it  ?  And  how  ever  was  he  to  execute 
his  purpose  to-day?  the  purpose  with  which  he 
had  brought  her,  poor  child,  to  this  walk  in  the 
Park.  Was  it  not  rather  cruel,  to  begin  a  time 
of  great  pain  with  a  taste  of  exquisite  pleasure  ? 
Mr.  Digby  hardly  knew  what  he  would  do,  when 
he  left  the  car  with  his  charge  and  entered  the 
Park. 

They  went  in  at  the  great  Fifth  Avenue  entrance; 
and  for  a  few  minutes  he  was  engaged  in  piloting 
himself  and  her  through  the  crowd  of  coming  and 
going  carriages ;  but  when  they  reached  quiet  go- 
ing and  a  secure  footpath,  he  looked  at  her.  It 
smote  him.  Such  an  expression  of  awakened  de- 
light was  in  her  face;  such  keen  curiosity,  such 
simplicity  and  fulness  of  enjoyment.  Rotha  was 
at  a  self-conscious  age,  but  she  had  forgotten 
herself;  two  years  old  is  not  more  free  from 
self-recollection.  They  walked  along  slowly,  the 
girl  reviewing  everything  in  the  lively  show 
before  her;  lips  parting  sometimes  for  a  smile, 
but  with  no  leisure  for  a  word.  Her  companion 
watched  her.  They  walked  on  and  on;  turned 


MENTAL  PHILOSOPHY.  147 

now  hither  and  now  thither;  Rotha  remained  in 
a  maze,  only  mechanically  following  where  she 
was  led. 

It  was  a  fine  afternoon,  and  all  the  world  was 
out.  Carriages,  riders,  foot  travellers  ;  everywhere 
crowds  of  people.  Where  was  Mr.  Digby  going  to 
make  the  communication  he  had  come  here  to 
make  ?  He  doubted  about  it  now,  but  if  he  spoke, 
where  should  it  be?  Not  in  this  crowd,  where  any 
minute  some  acquaintance  might  see  him  and  speak 
to  him.  With  some  trouble  he  sought  out  a  resting 
place  for  Kotha  from  whence  she  could  have  a  good 
view  of  one  angle  of  a  much  travelled  drive,  and 
at  the  same  time  both  of  them  were  in  a  sort  hid 
away  from  observation.  Here  they  sat  down ;  bu£ 
if  Rotha's  feet  might  rest,  her  companion's  mind 
was  further  and  further  from  any  such  point  of 
comfort.  They  had  exchanged  hardly  any  words 
since  they  set  out;  and  now  the  difficulty  of  be- 
ginning what  he  had  to  say  seemed  greater  than 
ever.  There  was  a  long  silence.  Rotha  broke  it; 
she  did  not  know  that  it  had  been  long. 

"Mr.  Digby — there  are  a  great  many  things  I 
do  not  understand." 

"  My  case  too,  Rotha." 

"  Yes,  but  you  understand  a  great  many  things 
that  I  don't." 

"What  is  troubling  you  now,  with  a  sense  of 
ignorance  ?  " 

"  I  see  in  a  great  many  carriages  two  gentlemen 
dressed  just  alike,  sitting  together;  they  are  on  the 


L48  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

back  seat  always,  and  they  always  have  their  arms 
folded,  just  alike ;  what  are  they  ?  " 

"Not  gentlemen,  Rotha;  they  are  footmen,  or 
grooms." 

"  What's  the  difference  ?  " 

"  Between  footmen  and  grooms  ?  " 

"No,  no;  between  a  gentleman  and  a  man  that 
isn't  a  gentleman  ?  " 

"  You  asked  me  that  once  before,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"Yes;  but  I  don't  make  it  out." 

"  Why  do  you  try  ?  " 

"  Why  Mr.  Digby,  I  like  to  understand  things." 

"  Quite  right,  too,  Rotha.  Well — the  difference 
is  more  in  the  feelings  and  manners  than  in  any- 
thing else." 

"Not  in  the  dress?" 

"Certainly  not.  Though  it  is  not  like  a  gentle- 
man to  be  improperly  dressed." 

"What  is  'improperly  dressed.'" 

"  Not  nice  and  neat." 

"  Nice  and  neat — dean  and  neat,  you  mean  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Then  a  gentleman  may  have  poor  clothes 
on?" 

"  Of  course." 

"  Can  anybody  be  poor  and  be  a  gentleman  ?  " 

"Not  anybody,  but  a  gentleman  may  be  poor, 
certainly,  without  ceasing  to  be  a  gentleman." 

"  But  if  he  was  poor  to  begin  with — could  he  be 
a  gentleman  then  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Rotha,"  said  her  friend  smiling  at  her; 


MENTAL  PHILOSOPHY.  149 

"money  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter.  Ex- 
cept only,  that  without  money  it  is  difficult  for  a 
boy  to  be  trained  in  the  habits  and  education  of 
a  gentleman." 

"  Education  ?  "  said  Rotha. 

"Yes." 

"  You  said,  '  feeling  and  manners.'  " 

"  Well,  yes.  But  you  can  see  for  yourself,  that 
without  education  it  would  be  hardly  possible  that 
manners  should  be  exactly  what  they  ought  to  be. 
A  gentleman  should  give  to  everybody  just  that 
sort  of  attention  and  respect  which  is  due;  just  the 
right  words  and  the  right  tone  and  the  fitting 
manner;  how  can  he,  if  he  does  riot  understand  his 
own  position  in  the  world  and  that  of  other  peo- 
ple ?  and  why  the  one  and  the  other  are  what  they 
are." 

"  Then  I  don't  see  how  poor  people  can  be  ladies 
and  gentlemen,"  said  Rotha  discontentedly. 

"  Being  poor  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,  except 
so  far." 

"  But  that's  far  enough,  Mr.  Digby." 

He  heard  the  disappointed  ambition  in  the  tone 
of  the  girl's  words. 

"  Rotha,"  he  said  kindly,  "  whoever  will  follow 
the  Bible  rules  of  good  manners,  will  be  sure  to 
be  right,  as  far  as  that  goes." 

"  Can  one  follow  them  without  being  a  Chris- 
tian?" 

"  Well  no,  hardly.  You  see,  the  very  root  of 
them  is  love  to  one's  neighbour;  and  one  cannot 


150  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

have  that,  truly  and  universally,  without  loving 
Christ  first." 

"  Then  are  all  gentlemen  Christians  ?  " 

The  young  man  laughed  a  little  at  her  perti- 
nacity. 

"What  are  you  so  much  concerned  about  it, 
Kotha?" 

"  I  was  just  thinking." — 

And  apparently  she  had  a  good  deal  of  thinking 
to  do;  for  she  was  quite  silent  for  some  time.  And 
Mr.  Digby  on  his  part  went  back  to  his  problem, 
how  was  he  to  tell  Rotha  what  he  had  promised 
to  tell  her?  From  their  somewhat  elevated  and 
withdrawn  position,  the  moving  scene  before  them 
was  most  bright  and  gay.  An  endless  procession 
of  equipages — beautiful  carriages,  stately  horses, 
pompous  attendants,  luxurious  pleasure-takers;  one 
after  another,  and  twos  and  threes  following  each 
other,  a  continuous  stream ;  carriages  of  all  sorts, 
landaus,  Victorias,  clarences,  phaetons,  barouches, 
close  coaches,  dog  carts,  carryalls,  gigs,  buggies. 
Now  and  then  a  country  aifair,  with  occupants  to 
match;  now  a  plain  wagon  with  a  family  of  chil- 
dren having  a  good  time ;  now  an  old  gentleman 
and  his  wife  taking  a  sober  airing ;  then  a  couple  of 
ladies  half  lost  in  the  depths  of  their  cushions,  and 
not  having  at  all  a  good  time,  to  judge  by  their 
looks;  and  then  a  young  man  with  nobody  but  him- 
self and  a  pair  of  fast  trotting  horses,  which  had, 
and  needed,  all  his  attention;  and  then  a  whirl  of 
the  general  thing,  fine  carriages,  fine  ladies,  tine 


MENTAL  PHILOSOPHY.  151 

gentlemen,  fine  servants  and  fine  horses;  in  all 
varieties  of  combination.  It  was  very  pretty;  it 
was  very  gay;  the  young  foliage  of  early  sum- 
mer was  not  yet  discouraged  and  dulled  by  the 
heat  and  the  dust;  the  air  was  almost  country 
sweet,  and  flowers  were  brilliant  in  one  of  the 
plantations  within  sight.  How  the  world  went 
by!- 

Mr.  Digby  had  half  forgotten  it  and  everything 
else,  in  his  musings,  when  he  was  aroused,  and  well 
nigh  startled,  by  a  question  from  Rotha. 

"  Mr.  Digby — can  I  help  my  will  ?  " 

He  looked  down  at  her.  "  What  do  you  mean, 
Rotha?" 

"  I  mean,  can  I  help  my  will  ?  I  asked  mother 
one  day,  and  she  said  I  had  better  ask  you." 

Rotha's  eyes  came  up  to  his  face  with  their 
query ;  and  whatever  it  might  import,  he  saw  that 
she  was  in  earnest.  Grave  and  intent  the  girl's 
fine  dark  eyes  were,  and  came  up  to  his  eyes  with 
a  kind  of  power  of  search. 

"  I  do  not  think  I  understand  you." 

"  Yes,  you  do.  If  I  do  not  like  something — do 
not  want  to  be  something — can  I  help  my  will  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  not  want  to  be  ? "  said  Mr.  Dig- 
by,  waiving  this  severe  question  in  mental  phi- 
losophy. 

"  Must  I  tell  you  ?  " 

"Not  if  you  don't  like;  but  I  think  it  might  help 
me  to  get  at  your  difficulty,  and  so  to  get  at  the 
answer  you  want." 


152  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Mr.  Digby,  can  a  person  want  to  do  something, 
and  yet  not  be  willing  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  in  growing  surprise. 

"  Then,  can  he  hdp  not  being  willing  ?  " 

"  What  is  the  case  in  hand,  Eotha  ?  I  am  wholly 
in  the  dark.  I  do  not  know  what  you  would 
be  at." 

To  come  nearer  to  the  point  was  not  Botha's  wish 
and  had  not  been  her  purpose ;  she  hesitated.  How- 
ever, the  subject  was  one  which  exercised  her,  and 
the  opportunity  of  discussing  her  difficulty  with 
Mr.  Digby  was  very  tempting.  She  hesitated,  but 
she  could  not  let  the  chance  go. 

"Mother  wishes  I  would  be  a  Christian,"  she  said 
low  and  slowly.  "And  I  wish  I  could,  to  please 
her;  but  I  do  not  want  to.  Can  I  help  my  will? 
and  I  am  not  willing." 

There  was  a  mixture  of  defiance  and  desire  in 
this  speech  which  instantly  roused  the  somewhat 
careless  attention  of  the  young  man  beside  her. 
Anything  that  touched  the  decision  of  any  mortal 
in  the  great  question  of  everlasting  life,  awoke  his 
sympathies  always  to  fullest  exercise.  It  was  not 
his  way,  however,  to  shew  what  he  felt;  and  he 
answered  her  with  the  same  deliberate  calm  as 
hitherto.  Nobody  would  have  guessed  the  quick- 
ened pulses  with  which  he  spoke. 

"  Why  do  you  not  want  to  be  a  Christian,  Ro- 
tha?"  * 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  answered  slowly.  "  I  sup- 
pose, I  want  to  be  free." 


MENTAL  PHILOSOPHY.  153 

"  Go  on  a  little  bit,  and  tell  me  what  you  mean 
by  being  'free.'" 

"  Why — I  mean,  I  suppose, — I  knoiv  I  mean,  that 
1  want  to  do  what  I  like." 

"  You  are  taking  the  wrong  way  for  that." 

"  Why,  I  could  not  do  what  I  liked  if  I  was  a 
Christian,  Mr.  Digby  ?  " 

"A  Christian,  on  the  contrary,  is  the  only  person 
in  this  world,  so  far  as  I  know,  who  can  do  what  he 
likes." 

"  Why,  do  you  ?  "  said  Rotha,  looking  at  him. 

"Yes,"  said  he  smiling.     "Always." 

"But  I  thought—" 

"You  thought  a  Christian  was  a  sort  of  a  slave." 

"Yes.  Or  a  servant.  A  servant  he  is;  and  a 
servant  is  not  free.  He  has  laws  to  mind." 

"And  you  think,  by  refusing  the  service  you  get 
rid  of  the  laws  ?  That's  a  mistake.  The  laws  are 
over  you  and  binding  on  you,  just  the  same, 
whether  you  accept  them  or  not;  and  you  have 
got  to  meet  the  consequences  of  not  obeying 
them.  Did  you  never  think  of  that?" 

"  But  it  is  different  if  I  promised  to  obey  them," 
said  Rotha. 

"  How  different  ?  " 

"  If  I  promised,  I  must  do  it." 

"  If  you  do  not  promise  you  must  take  the  con- 
sequences of  not  doing  it.  You  cannot  get  from 
under  the  law." 

"But  how  can  you  do  whatever  you  like,  Mr. 
Dig-by?" 


154  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"There  comes  in  your  other  mistake,"  said  he. 
"  I  can,  because  I  am  free.  It  is  you  who  are  the 
slave." 

"I?     How,  Mr.  Digby?" 

"You  said  just  now,  you  wished  you  could  be  a 
Christian,  but  you  could  not.  Are  you  free  to  do 
what  you  wish  ?  " 

"  But  can  I  help  my  will  ?  " 

The  gentleman  took  out  of  his  pocket  a  slim  lit- 
tle New  Testament  which  always  went  about  with 
him,  and  put  it  into  Rotha's  hands  open  at  a  cer- 
tain place,  bidding  her  read. 

"  '  Then  said  Jesus  to  those  Jews  which  believed 
on  him,  If  ye  continue  in  my  word,  then  are  ye 
my  disciples  indeed ;  and  ye  shall  know  the  truth, 
and  the  truth  shall  make  you  free.' " 

Rotha  stopped  and  looked  up  at  her  companion. 

"Go  on,"  he  bade  her;  and  she  read  further. 

" '  They  answered  him,  We  be  Abraham's  seed, 
and  were  never  in  bondage  to  any  man:  how  say- 
est  thou,  Ye  shall  be  made  free  ? 

" '  Jesus  answered  them,  Verily,  verily,  I  say 
unto  you,  Whosoever  committeth  sin  is  the  servant 
of  sin.  And  the  servant  abideth  not  in  the  house 
forever:  but  the  Son  abideth  ever.  If  the  Son 
therefore  shall  make  you  free,  ye  shall  be  free 
indeed.' " 

Rotha  looked  at  the  words,  after  she  had  done 
reading. 

"  Mr.  Digby,"  she  said  then  again,  "  can  I  help 
my  will?" 


MENTAL  PHILOSOPHY.  155 

"  No,"  said  he,  "  for  you  are  a  poor  bond-slave. 
But  see  what  is  written  there.  What  you  cannot 
do,  Christ  can." 

"Why  don't  he  do  it,  then?"  she  said  defi- 
antly. 

"You  have  not  asked  him,  or  wished  him  to 
do  it." 

"  But  why  shouldn't  he  do  it  without  my  asking, 
or  wishing,  if  he  can  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  his  way.  He  says,  'Ask,  and  ye  shall 
receive';  but  he  promises  nothing  to  those  who  do 
not  apply  to  him.  And  the  application  must  be 
in  good  earnest  too,  Kotha;  not  the  form  of  the 
thing,  but  the  truth.  'Blessed  are  they  that  hun- 
ger and  thirst  after  righteousness;  for  they  shall  be 
filled.'" 

"Then,  if  I  asked  him,  could  he  change  my 
will?" 

"He  says,  he  can  make  you  free.  It  was  one 
thing  he  came  to  do;  to  deliver  people  from  the 
bondage  of  sin  and  the  power  of  Satan." 

"  The  power  of  Satan !  "  said  Rotha.  "  I  am  not 
under  his  power !  " 

"  Certainly  you  are.  There  are  only  two  parties 
in  the  world;  two  kingdoms;  those  who  do  not  be- 
long to  the  one,  belong  to  the  other." 

"But  Mr.  Digby,"  said  Rotha,  now  much  exer- 
cised, "  I  hate  the  devil  as  much  as  you  do." 

"  Don't  help,  Rotha.  '  From  the  power  of  Satan 
to  God,'  is  the  turn  people  take  when  they  become 
Christians." 


156  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"What  makes  you  think  I  am  under  his  power?" 

"Because  I  see  you  are  not  under  the  rule  of 
Christ.  And  because  I  see  you  are  doing  precisely 
what  Satan  would  have  you  do." 

"What?  "said  Rotha. 

"  Refusing  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  or  putting  oif 
accepting  him." 

Rotha  was  silent.  Her  breast  was  heaving,  her 
breath  coming  thick  and  short.  Mr.  Digby's  con- 
clusions were  very  disagreeable  to  her;  but  what 
could  she  say  ? 

"  I  can't  help  my  will,"  she  said  doggedly. 

"You  see  you  are  not  honest  with  yourself. 
You  have  just  learned  that  there  is  a  remedy  for 
that  difficulty." 

"But  Mr.  Digby,"  said  Rotha,  "how  is  it  that 
you  can  do  what  you  like  ?  " 

He  smiled  down  at  her,  a  pleasant,  frank  smile, 
which  witnessed  to  the  truth  of  his  words  and 
wrought  more  with  Rotha  than  the  words  them- 
selves; while  the  eyes  that  she  admired  rested  on 
her  with  grave  penetration. 

"There  is  an  old  promise  the  Lord  gave  his 
people  a  great  while  ago;  that  in  the  new  cove- 
nant which  he  would  make  with  them  in  Christ, 
he  would  write  all  his  laws  in  their  hearts.  He 
has  done  that  for  me." 

"  You  mean — "  said  Rotha. 

"  Yes,  go  on,  and  say  what  you  think  I  mean." 

"  You  mean, — that  what  you  like  to  do,  is  just 
what  God  likes  you  to  do." 


MENTAL  PHILOSOPHY.  157 

"And  never  anything  else,  Kotha,"  he  said 
gravely. 

"Well,  Mr.  Digby,"  said  Kotha  slowly,  "after 
all,  you  have  given  up  yourself." 

"And  very  glad  to  be  rid  of  that  personage." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  give  up  myself." 

"I  see." 

And  there  followed  a  long  silence.  Mr.  Digby 
did  not  wish  to  add  anything  to  his  words,  and 
Rotha  could  not  to  hers;  and  they  both  sat  in 
meditation,  until  the  girl's  lighter  humour  got 
away  from  the  troublesome  subject  altogether. 
Watching  her,  Mr.  Digby  saw  the  pleased  play  of 
feature  which  testified  to  her  being  again  absorbed 
in  the  scene  before  her;  her  eye  was  alive,  her 
lip  moved  with  a  coming  and  going  smile. 

"  It  amuses  you,  does  it  not  ?  "  he  said. 

"  O  yes !  "  Rotha  exclaimed  with  a  long  breath. 
"  I  wish  mother  could  see  it." 

"She  can,"  said  Mr.  Digby.  "We  will  have  a 
carriage  and  take  her  out.  I  don't  know  why  I 
never  thought,  of  it  before." 

"  A  carriage  ?  For  mother  ?  And  bring  her 
here  ?  "  said  Rotha  breathless. 

"Yes,  to-morrow,  if  the  day  is  good.  It  will 
refresh  her.  And  meanwhile,  Rotha,  I  am  afraid 
we'  must  leave  this  scene  of  enchantment." 

Rotha  had  changed  colour  with  excitement 
and  delight;  now  she  rose  up  with  another  deep 
sigh. 

"There   are   more   people  than   ever,"   she  re- 


158  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

marked;  "more  carriages.  Mr.  Digby,  I  should 
think  they  would  be  perfectly  happy  ?  " 

"What  makes  you  think  they  are  not?"  said 
he  amused.  % 

"They  don't  look  so." 

"  They  are  accustomed  to  it.  They  come  every 
day  or  two." 

"Does  that  make  it  less  pleasant?" 

"  It  takes  off  the  novelty,  you  know.  Most  pleas- 
ures are  less  pleasant  when  the  novelty  is  gone." 

"Why?" 

Mr.  Digby  smiled  again.  "  You  never  found  it 
so?"  he  said. 

"No.  I  remember  when  we  were  at  Medway- 
ville,  everything  I  liked  to  do,  I  liked  it  more  the 
more  I  did  it." 

"  You  are  of  a  happy  temperament.  What  did 
you  use  to  like  to  do  there  ?  " 

"0  a. load  of  things!"  said  Rotha  sighing.  "I 
liked  our  old  dog,  and  my  kittens;  and  riding 
about;  and  I  liked  very  much  going  to  the  hay 
field  and  getting  into  the  cart  with  father  and 
riding  home.  And  then — " 

But  Rotha's  words  stopped  suddenly,  aud  her 
companion  looking  down  at  her  saw  that  her  eyes 
were  brimming  full  of  tears,  and  her  face  flushed 
with  the  emotion  which  almost  mastered  her.  A 
little  kind  pressure  of  the  hand  he  held  was  all  the 
answer  he  made;  and  then  they  made  their  way 
through  the  crowd  and  got  into  the  cars  to  go 
home. 


MENTAL  PHILOSOPHY.  159 

He  had  not  discharged  his  commission;  how 
could  he  ?  Things  had  taken  a  turn  which  made 
it  almost  impossible.  It  must  be  done  another 
day.  Poor  child!  The  young  man's  mind  was 
filled  with  sympathy  and  compassion,  as  he  looked 
at  Kotha  sitting  beside  him  and  noted  how  her  as- 
pect had  changed  and  brightened;  just  with  this 
afternoon's  pleasure  and  the  new  thoughts  and 
mental  stir  and  hope  to  which  it  had  given  rise. 
Poor  child  !  what  lay  before  her,  that  she  dreamed 
not  of,  yet  must  face  and  meet  inevitably.  That 
in  the  near  future;  and  beyond — what  ?  No  friend 
but  himself  in  all  the  world;  and  how  was  he  to 
take  care  of  her?  The  young  man  felt  a  little  pity 
for  himself  by  the  way.  Truly,  a  girl  of  this  sort, 
brimfull  of  mental  capacity  and  emotional  sensi- 
tiveness, was  a  troublesome  legacy  for  a  young 
man  situated  as  he  was.  However,  his  own  trou- 
ble got  not  much  regard  on  the  present  occasion ; 
for  his  heart  was  burdened  with  the  sorrow  and 
the  tribulation  coming  upon  these  two,  the  mother 
and  daughter.  And  these  were  but  two,  in  a 
world  full  of  the  like  and  of  far  worse.  He  re- 
membered how  once,  in  the  sight  of  the  tears  and 
sorrowing  hearts  around  him  and  in  view  of 
the  great  flood  of  human  miseries  of  which  they 
were  but  instances  and  reminders,  "Jesus  wept;" 
and  the  heart  of  his  servant  melted  in  like  com- 
passion. Bat  he  shewed  none  of  it,  when  he  came 
with  Rotha  into  her  mother's  presence  again;  he 
was  calm  and  composed  as  always. 


160  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Mrs.  Carpenter,"  he  said,  as  he  found  himself 
for  a  moment  alone  with  her,  Kotha.  having  run  off 
to  change  her  dress, — "you  did  not  tell  me  your 
sister's  name.  I  think  I  ought  to  know  it." 

"  Her  name  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Carpenter  starting  and 
hesitating.  What  did  he  want  to  know  her  sister's 
name  for?  But  Mr.  Digby  did  not  look  as  if  he 
cared  about  knowing  it;  he  had  asked  the  ques- 
tion indifferently,  and  his  face  of  careless  calm 
reassured  her.  She  answered  him  at  last. 

"Her  name  is  Busby." 

It  was  characteristic  of  Mr.  Digby  that  his  fea- 
tures revealed  no  quickening  of  interest  at  this; 
for  he  was  acquainted  with  a  Mrs.  Busby,  who 
was  also  the  wife  of  a  lawyer  in  the  city.  But 
he  shewed  neither  surprise  nor  curiosity;  he  mere- 
ly said  in  the  same  unconcerned  manner  and 
tone, 

"There  may  be  more  Mrs.  Busby's  than  one. 
What  is  her  husband's  name?" 

"I  forget — It  begins  with  'A.'  I  know;  but  I 
can't  think  of  it.  I  can  think  of  nothing  but  the 
name  of  that  old  New  York  baker  they  used  to 
speak  of — Arcularius." 

"Will  Archibald  do?" 

"That  is  it!" 

Mr.  Digby  could  hardly  believe  his  ears.  Mrs. 
Archibald  Busby  was  very  well  known  to  him,  and 
he  was  a  welcome  and  tolerably  frequent  visiter 
at  her  house.  Was  it  possible  ?  he  thought ;  was 
it  possible?  Could  that  woman  be  the  sister  of 


MENTAL  PHILOSOPHY.  161 

this?  and  such  a  sister?  Nothing  in  her  or  in  her 
her  house  that  he  had  seen,  looked  like  it.  He 
made  neither  remark  nor  suggestion  however,  but 
took  quiet  leave,  after  his  wont,  and  went  away; 
after  arranging  that  a  carriage  should  come  the 
next  day  to  take  Mrs.  Carpenter  to  the  Park. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

STATEN  ISLAND. 

ME,.  DIGBY  had  a  great  many  thoughts  during 
the  next  few  days;  some  of  which  almost 
went  to  make  Mrs.  Carpenter  in  the  wrong.  The 
Mrs.  Busby  he  knew  was  so  very  unexceptionable  a 
lady;  how  could  she  be  the  black  sheep  of  the 
story  he  had  heard  ?  Mrs.  Carpenter  might  labour 
under  a  mistake,  might  she  not?  Yet  facts  are 
said  to  be  stubborn  things,  and  some  facts  were 
hard  for  the  truth  of  the  story.  Mr.  Digby  was 
puzzled.  He  would  perhaps  have  gone  promptly 
to  Mrs.  Busby's  home,  to  make  observations  with 
a  keenness  he  had  never  thought  worth  while  when 
there;  but  Mrs.  Busby  and  all  her  family  were  out 
of  town,  spending  the  hot  months  at  a  watering 
place,  or  at  several  watering  places.  Meanwhile 
Mr.  Digby  had  his  unfulfilled  commission  to  at- 
tend to. 

Mrs.  Carpenter  went  driving  to  the  Park  now 
every  pleasant  day;  to  the  great  admiration  of 
Mrs.  Marble,  the  wonderful  refreshment  of  the 
sick  woman  herself,  and  the  extravagant  delight 

and  pride  of  Rotha.     She  said  she  was  sure  her 
(162) 


STATEN  ISLAND.  163 

mother  would  get  well  now.  But  her  mother's 
eye,  as  she  said  it,  went  to  Mr.  Digby's,  with  a 
warning  admonition  that  he  must  neither  be  de- 
ceived nor  lose  time.  He  understood. 

"  I  am  going  down  to  Staten  Island  to-morrow," 
he  remarked.  "Would  you  like  to  go  with  me, 
Kotha?" 

"  Staten  Island  ?  "  she  repeated. 

"  Yes.  It  is  about  an  hour's  sail  from  New  York, 
or  nearly;  across  the  bay.  You  can  become  ac- 
quainted with  the  famous  bay  of  New  York." 

"  Is  it  famous  ?  " 

"For  its  beauty." 

"  Oh  I  should  like  to  go  very  much,  Mr.  Digby, 
if  it  was  as  ugly  as  it  could  be !  " 

"Then  when  your  mother  comes  from  the  Park 
in  the  morning,  we  will  go." 

Eotha  was  full  of  delight.  But  her-  mother,  she 
thought,  was  very  sober  during  that  morning's 
drive ;  she  tried  in  vain  to  brighten  her  up.  Again 
and  again  Mrs.  Carpenter's  eyes  rested  on  her  with 
a  lingering,  tender  sorrowfulness,  which  was  not 
their  wont. 

"  Mother,  is  anything  the  matter  ?  "  she  asked 
at  length. 

"  I  am  thinking  of  you,  my  child." 

"  Then  don't  think  of  me  !_    What  about  me  ?  " 

"  I  am  grieved  that  a  shadow  should  ever  come 
over  your  gay  spirits.  Yet  I  am  foolish." 

"What  makes  you  think  of  shadows?  I  am 
going  to  be  always  as  gay  as  I  am  to-day." 


164  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"That  is  impossible." 

"Why?" 

"  It  is  not  the  way  of  this  world." 

"  Does  trouble  come  to  everybody  ?  " 

"  Yes.     At  some  time." 

"Well,  mother  dear,  you  can  just  wait  till  it 
comes.  There  is  no  shadow  over  me  now,  at  any 
rate.  If  you  were  only  well,  I  should  be  happy 
enough." 

"  I  shall  never  be  well,  my  child." 

"  O  you  say  that  just  because  a  shadow  has 
come  over  you.  I  wish  I  knew  where  it  comes 
from;  I  would  scare  it  away.  Mother,  mother, 
look,  look ! — see  that  little  carriage  with  the  little 
horses,  and  the  children  driving  !  Oh — !  " 

Rotha's  expression  of  intense  admiration  is  not 
to  be  given  on  paper. 

"  Shetland  ponies,  those  are,"  said  her  mother. 

"  What  are  Shetland  ponies  ?  " 

"  Ponies  that  come  from  Shetland." 

"  And  do  they  never  grow  any  bigger  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  How  jolly !  " 

"  Rotha,  that  is  a  boy's  word,  I  think." 

"  If  it  is  good  for  a  boy,  why  isn't  it  good  for 
me?" 

"  I  do  not  know  that  it  is  good  for  a  boy.  But 
a  lady  is  bound  to  be  more  particular  in  what  she 
says  and  does." 

"  More  than  a  gentleman  ?  " 

"  In  some  ways,  yes." 


STATEN  ISLAND.  165 

"  I  don't  understand  in  what  ways.  Right  is 
right,  and  wrong  is  wrong,  whether  one  is  a  boy 
or  a  girl." 

Mrs.  Carpenter  sighed.  What  would  bring  just 
notions,  who  would  teach  proper  ways,  to  her  in- 
quisitive child  when  she  should  be  left  mother- 
less? Rotha  perceived  the  deep  concern  which 
gathered  in  her  mother's  eyes  again;  and  anew 
endeavoured  by  lively  talk  to  chase  it  away.  In 
vain.  Mrs.  Carpenter  came  home  tired  and  ex- 
hausted. 

"  I  think  she  was  worrying  about  something," 
Rotha  said,  when  soon  after  she  and  her  friend 
were  on  their  way  to  Whitehall.  "  She  does,  now 
and  then." 

Mr.  Digby  made  no  answer;  and  Rotha's  next 
keen  question  was, 

"  You  look  as  if  you  knew  what  she  was  worry- 
ing about,  Mr.  Digby  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  do." 

"  Couldn't  I  know  what  it  was  ?  " 

"  Perhaps.     But  you  must  wait." 

It  was  easy  to  wait.  Even  the  omnibus  ride 
to  Whitehall  was  charming  to  Rotha's  inexpe- 
rienced eyes;  and  when  she  was  on  board  the 
ferry  boat  and  away  from  the  quays  and  the  city, 
and  the  lively  waters  of  the  bay  were  rolling  up  all 
around  her,  the  girl's  enjoyment  grew  intense.  She 
had  never  seen  such  an  extent  of  water  before,  she 
had  no  idea  of  the  real  look  of  the  waves;  a  hundred 
thousand  questions  came  crowding  and  surging  up 


166  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

in  her  mind,  like  the  broken  billows  down  below 
her.  In  her  mind;  they  got  no  further;  merely  to 
have  them  rise  was  a  delight ;  she  would  find  the 
answer  to  them  some  day.  For  the  present  it  was 
enough  to  watch  the  changing  forms  and  varying 
colours  of  the  water,  and  to  drink  in  the  fresh 
breeze  which  brought  life  and  strength  with  it 
from  the  sea.  Yet  now  and  then  a  question  was 
too  urgent  and  must  be  satisfied. 

"Mr.  Digby,  nobody  could  paint  water,  could 
they?" 

"Yes." 

"How  could  they?  It  is  all  changing,  every 
instant;  it  won't  stand  still  to  be  drawn." 

"Most  things  can  be  done,  if  one  is  only  in 
earnest  enough." 

"But  how  can  this?" 

"  Not  without  a  great  deal  of  study  and  pains. 
A  man  must  watch  the  play  of  the  waves  and  the 
shapes  they  take,  and  the  colours  of  the  different 
parts  in  any  given  sort  of  weather,  until  he  has 
got  them  by  heart;  and  then  he  can  put  the  lines 
and  the  colours  on  the  canvas.  If  he  has  the  gift 
to  do  it,  that  is. " 

"What  has  the  weather  to  do  with  it?  Dif- 
ferent colours  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  The  lights  and  shadows  vary  with 
every  change  of  the  sky;  and  the  colours  vary." 

"Then  a  person  must  be  very  much  in  earnest," 
said  Rotha,  "ever  to  get  it  all." 

"There  is  no  doing  great  things  in  any  line. 


STATEN  ISLAND.  167 

without  being  very  much  in  earnest.  The  start 
isn't  the  thing;  it  is  the  steady  pull  that  tries." 

"  Can  you  draw,  Mr.  Digby  ?  " 

"Yes,  a  little." 

Again  Eotha  was  all  absorbed  in  what  lay  be- 
fore and  around  her;  getting  unconscious  educa- 
tion through  her  eyes,  as  they  received  for  the  first 
time  the  images  of  so  many  new  things.  To  the 
people  on  board  she  gave  scarcely  any  heed  at  all. 

Arrived  at  Brighton,  Mr.  Digby 's  first  care  was 
to  give  his  charge  and  himself  some  refreshment. 
He  took  Rotha  to  a  hotel  and  ordered  a  simple  din- 
ner. Then  he  desired  to  have  a  little  wagon  har- 
nessed up,  and  putting  the  delighted  girl  into  it, 
he  drove  to  the  sea  shore  and  let  her  feast  her  eyes 
on  the  incoming  waves  and  breaking  surf.  He 
himself  was  full  of  one  thought,  waiting  for  the 
moment  when  he  could  say  to  her  what  he  had  to 
say ;  but  he  was  forced  to  wait  a  good  while.  He 
had  made  a  mistake,  he  found,  in  choosing  this  pre- 
cise direction  for  their  drive.  Rotha's  overwhelm- 
ing pleasure  and  entranced  absorption  for  some 
time  could  not  be  broken  in  upon.  She  was  too 
utterly  happy  to  notice  how  different  was  her 
friend's  absorption  from  her  own;  unless  with  a 
vague,  passing  perception,  which  she  could  not 
dwell  upon. 

At  last  her  friend  asked  her  if  she  would  like  a 
run  upon  the  sand,  the  tide  being  then  out.  He 
drove  up  to  a  straggling  bit  of  fence,  tied  his  horse, 
and  lifted  Rotha  out;  who  immediately  ran  down 


168  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

to  the  narrow  beach  and  as  near  to  the  water  as 
she  dared;  there  stood  still  and  looked.  There 
was  but  a  gentle  surf  that  day,  with  the  ebb  tide ; 
but  to  Rotha  it  was  a  scene  of  unparalleled  might 
and  majesty.  She  was  drinking  in  pleasure,  as 
one  can  at  fourteen,  with  all  the  young  suscepti- 
bilities fully  alive  and  strong.  Mr.  Digby  could 
not  interrupt  her.  He  threw  himself  down  011 
a  dry  piece  of  sand,  and  waited;  watching  her, 
and  watching  with  a  sad  sort  of  pleasure  the  ever- 
lasting rise  and  breaking  of  those  curling  billows. 
Things  spiritual  and  material  get  very  mixed  up  in 
such  a  mood;  and  anon  the  ocean  became  to  Mr. 
Digby  somehow  identified  with  the  sea  of  trouble 
the  tides  of  which  do  overflow  all  this  world.  The 
breaking  waves  were  but  the  constantly  occurring 
and  recurring  bursts  of  misfortune  and  disaster 
which  overtake  everybody.  Here  it  is,  there  it  is, 
— it  is  here  again,— it  is  always  somewhere;  ay,  far 
as  the  eye  cau  reach.  Here  is  this  child,  now, — 

"Mr.  Digby,  you  are  tired — you  don't  like  it — 
you  are  just  waiting  for  me,"  Rotha  said  suddenly, 
with  delicate  good  feeling,  coming  to  his  side. 

"  I  do  like  it,  always.  I  am  not  tired,  thank  you, 
Rotha." 

"  But  you  are  not  taking  pleasure  in  it  now,"  sho 
said  gently. 

"No.  I  was  thinking,  how  full  the  world  is  of 
trouble." 

"  Why  should  you  think  that  just  now  ?  You 
had  better  think,  how  full  it  is  of  pleasure.  It's 


STATEN  ISLAND.  169 

as  full — it  seems  to  me  as  full — as  the  very  sea 
itself." 

"  Does  your  life  have  so  much  pleasure  ?  " 

"  To-day — "  said  the  girl,  with  a  rapt  look  out  to 
sea. 

"  And  yet  Eotha,  it  is  for  you  I  am  troubled." 

"  For  me ! "  she  said  with  a  surprised  look  at 
him. 

"  Yes.  Suppose  you  sit  down  here  for  a  few  min- 
utes, and  let  me  talk  to  you." 

"  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  trouble  just  now," 
she  said ;  sitting  down  however  as  he  bade  her. 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  talk  about  it  now,  or  at 
any  time;  but  I  must  Can  you  bear  trouble, 
Eotha?" 

There  was  something  tender  and  grave  and  sym- 
pathizing in  his  look  and  tone,  which  somehow 
made  the  girl's  heart  beat  quicker.  That  there 
was  real  gravity  of  tidings  beneath  such  a  man- 
ner, she  felt  intuitively;  though  she  strove  not  to 
believe  it. 

"  I  don't  know, — "  she  said  in  answer  to  his  ques- 
tion. "  I  have,  borne  it." 

"This  is  more  than  you  have  borne  yet." 

"  I  had  a  father,  once,  Mr.  Digby, — "  she  said 
with  a  curious  self-restraint  that  did  not  lack  dig- 
nity. 

How  could  he  answer  her?  He  did  not  find 
words.  And  instead,  there  came  over  him  such  a 
rush  of  tenderness  in  view  of  what  was  surely  to 
fall  upon  the  girl,  in  the  present  and  in  the  future, 


170  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

that  for  a  moment  he  was  unmanned.  To  hide 
the  corresponding  rush  of  water  to  his  eyes,  Mr. 
Digby  was  fain  to  bow  his  face  in  the  hand 
which  rested  on  his  knees.  Neither  the  action 
nor  the  cause  of  it  escaped  Rotha's  shrewdness 
and  awakened  sense  of  fear,  but  it  silenced  her  at 
the  same  time ;  and  it  was  not  till  a  little  interval 
had  passed,  though  before  Mr.  Digby  had  lifted 
up  his  head,  that  the  silence  became  intolerable 
to  her.  She  heard  the  sea  and  saw  the  breakers 
no  more,  or  only  with  a  feeling  of  impatience. 

"Well,"  she  said  at  last,  in  a  changed  voice, 
hard,  and  dry, — "  why  don't  you  tell  me  what 
it  is  ?  "  If  she  was  impolite,  she  did  not  mean  it, 
and  her  friend  knew  she  did  not  mean  it. 

"  I  hardly  can,  llotha,"  he  answered  sorrowfully. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said,  "  but  it  isn't 
true.  You  think  so,  but  it  isn't  true." 

"  What  are  you  speaking  of?" 

"  You  know.  I  know  what  you  mean ;  you  are 
speaking  of — mother !  "  The  word  came  out  with 
difficulty  and  only  by  stern  determination.  "  It  is 
not  true,  Mr.  Digby." 

"  What  is  not  true,  Eotha  ?  " 

"  You  know.  It  is  not  true!  "  she  repeated  vehe- 
mently. 

"  But  Rotha,  my  child,  what  if  it  were  true  ?  " 

"  You  know  it  couldn't  be  true,"  she  said,  fixing 
on  him  a  pair  of  eyes  almost  wild  in  their  inten-. 
sity.  "It  couldn't  be  true.  What  would  become 
of  me?" 


STATEN  ISLAND.  171 

"  I  will  take  care  of  you,  always." 

"  You !  "  she  retorted,  with  a  scorn  supreme  and 
only  matched  by  the  pain  with  which  she  spoke. 
"What  are  you?  It  couldrit  be,  Mr.  Digby." 

"Listen  to  me,  child.  Rotha,  I  have  come  here 
to  talk  to  you  about  it."  He  saw  how  full  the  girl's 
eyes  were  growing,  of  tears  just  swelling  and  ready 
to  burst  forth ;  and  he  stopped.  But  she  impatiently 
dashed  them  right  and  left. 

"  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it.  It's  no  use,  here 
or  anywhere  else.  I  would  like  to  go  home." 

"  Not  yet.  Before  you  go  home  I  want  you  to 
be  quite  composed,  and  to  have  good  command  of 
yourself,  so  that  you  may  not  distress  your  mother. 
She  cannot  bear  it.  Therefore  she  asked  me  to  tell 
you,  because  she  dreaded  to  see  your  suffering. 
Can  you  bear  it  and  hide  it,  Rotha,  bravely,  for 
her  sake  ?  " 

"She  asked  you  to  tell  me?"  cried  the  girl; 
and  Mr.  Digby  never  forgot  the  face  of  wild 
agony  with  which  she  looked  at  him.  He  an- 
swered quietly,  "Yes;"  though  his  heart  was 
bleeding  for  her. 

"  She  thinks—" 

"  She  knows  how  it  must  be.  It  is  nothing  new, 
or  strange,  or  sorrowful,  to  her, — except  only  for 
you.  But  in  her  love  for  you,  she  greatly  dreads 
to  see  your  sorrow.  Do  you  think,  Eotha,  for  her 
sake,  you  can  bear  up  bravely,  and  be  quiet,  and 
not  shew  what  you  feel  ?  For  her  sake  ?  " 

He  doubted  if  the  girl  rightly  heard  him.     She 


172  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

looked  at  him,  indeed,  while  he  spoke,  as  if  list- 
ening; but  her  face  was  white,  or  rather  livid,  and 
her  eyes  seemed  to  be  gazing  into  despair. 

"  I  do  not  think  it  can  be,  Mr.  Digby,"  she  said. 
"  She  don't  look  like  it.  And  what  would  become 
of  me  ? 

"  I  will  take  faithful  care  of  you,  Rotha,  as  long 
as  you  live,  and  I  live." 

"  You  are  nothing ! "  she  said  contemptuously. 
But  then  followed  a  cry  which  curdled  Mr.  Digby 's 
blood.  It  was  not  a  piercing  shriek,  yet  it  was  a 
prolonged  cry,  pointed  and  sharpened  with  pain 
and  heavy  with  despair.  One  such  wail,  and  the 
girl  dropped  her  face  in  her  hands  and  sat  motion- 
less. Her  companion  would  rather  have  seen 
sobs  and  tears;  he  did  not  know  what  to  do  with 
her.  The  soft  beat  and  wash  of  the  waves  sounded 
drearily  in  the  silence.  Mr.  Digby  waited.  Noth- 
ing but  time,  he  knew,  can  cover  the  roughness 
of  life's  rough  places  with  its  moss  and  lichen  of 
patience  and  memory.  Comfort  was  not  to  be 
spoken  of,  not  here.  He  comprehended  now  why 
Mrs.  Carpenter  had  shrank  from  telling  the  tidings 
herself.  But  the  day  was  wearing  away;,  they 
must  go  home;  the  burden,  however  heavy,  must 
be  lifted  and  carried. 

"Rotha — my  child — "  he  said  after  a  long  in- 
terval. 

No  answer. 

"  Rotha,  my  child,  cannot  you  look  up  and  speak 
to  me?  Rotha — my  poor  little  Rotha — it  is  very 


STATEN  ISLAND.  173 

heavy  for  you !  But  won't  you  make  it  as  light  as 
you  can  for  your  mother  ?  " 

The  child  writhed  away  from  under  the  hand  he 
had  gently  laid  on  her  shoulder;  but  uttered  no 
sound. 

"  Botha — we  must  go  home  presently.  Do  you 
know,  your  mother  will  be  very  anxious  to  see  you. 
She  is  expecting  us  now,  I  dare  say." 

It  came  then,  the  burst  of  tears  which  he  had 
dreaded  and  yet  half  longed  for.  The  girl  turned 
a  little  more  from  him  and  flung  herself  down  on 
the  sand,  and  there  wept  as  he  had  never  seen  any- 
body weep  before.  With  all  the  passion  of  an  in- 
tense nature,  and  all  the  self  abandonment  of  an 
ungoverned  nature,  sobbing  such  sobs  as  shook  her 
whole  frame,  and  with  loud  weeping  which  could 
not  be  restrained  into  silence.  Better  it  should  not 
be,  Mr.  Digby  thought;  better  she  should  be  al- 
lowed to  exhaust  herself  so  that  very  fatigue  should 
induce  quiet.  But  to  the  sitter-by  it  was  un- 
speakably painful;  a  scene  never  to  be  recalled 
without  a  profound  prayer,  like  Noah's,  I  fancy, 
after  the  deluge,  that  the  like  might  never  come 
again. 

And  happily,  nature  did  exhaust  herself;  and  just 
because  the  passion  of  sobs  and  tears  was  so  violent, 
it  did  yield  after  a  time,  as  strength  gave  way. 
But  it  lasted  fearfully  long.  However,  at  last  Ro- 
tha  grew  quieter,  and  then  still ;  and  not  till  then 
Mr.  Digby  spoke  again.  He  spoke  as  if  all  this 
had  been  an  interlude  not  noticed  by  him. 


174  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT 

"  Kotha,  my  child,  can  you  gather  up  your  cour- 
age and  be  quiet  and  be  brave  now  ?  " 

She  hesitated,  and  then  in  a  smothered  voice  said, 
"  I'm  not  brave." 

"  I  think  you  can  be." 

"  I  wish — I  could  die,"  she  said  slowly. 

"  But  what  we  have  to  do,  is  to  live  and  act  for 
others.  Yes,  it  would  often  seem  a  great  deal 
easier  to  die;  but  we  have  something  to  do  in  the 
world.  You  have  something  to  do.  Your  mother's 
comfort,  and  even  the  prolonging  of  her  stay  with 
us,  may  depend  on  your  quietness  and  self-com- 
mand. For  love  of  her,  can  you  be  strong  and 
do  it  ?  " 

"I  am  not  strong — "  said  Botha,  as  she  had 
spoken  before. 

"  Love  makes  people  strong.  And  Jesus  will 
help  the  weak,  if  they  trust  him,  to  do  anything 
they  have  to  do."  i 

"  You  know  I  am  not  a  Christian,"  Rotha  an- 
swered in  the  same  matter-of-fact  way. 

"  Suppose  you  do  not  let  that  be  true  after  to-day." 

There  was  another  silence. 

"  I  am  ready  to  go,  Mr.  Digby,"  Rotha  said. 

"And  you  will  be  a  woman,  and  wise,  and  quiet?  " 

"  I  don't  know  ! " 

Mr.  Digby  thought  it  was  not  best  to  press  mat- 
ters further.  He  put  Rotha  into  the  wagon  again 
and  drove  back  to  the  hotel.  Quiet  she  was,  at 
any  rate,  now;  he  did  not  even  see  any  more  tears; 
but  alas,  of  all  the  things  in  the  world  which  she 


STATEN  ISLAND.  175 

had  been  so  glad  to  look  at  on  the  way  down,  she 
saw  nothing  on  the  way  back.  Driving  or  sailing, 
it  was  all  the  same;  only  when  Mr.  Digby  put  her 
into  the  omnibus  at  Whitehall  he  saw  a  flash  of 
something  like  terror  which  crossed  her  face  and 
left  it  blanched.  But  that  was  all. 

He  went  into  the  invalid's  room  at  Mrs.  Marble's 
with  trepidation.  Rotha  however  was  merely  less 
effusive  and  more  hasty  than  usual  in  her  greet- 
ings to  her  mother,  and  after  a  kiss  or  two  turned 
away  "to  get  her  things  off,"  as  she  said.  And 
when  Mrs.  Cord  unluckily  asked  her  in  passing,  if 
she  had  had  a  pleasant  day?  Rotha  choked,  but 
managed  to  get  out  that  it  had  been  "  as  good  as 
it  could  be."  What  she  went  through  in  the  little 
hall  room  which  served  for  closet  and  wardrobe,  no 
one  knew;  but  Mr.  Digby,  who  stayed  purposely 
till  she  came  back  again,  was  reassured  to  see  that 
she  was  perfectly  quiet,  and  that  she  set  about  her 
wonted  duties  in  a  grave,  collected  way,  more 
grave  than  usual,  but  quite  as  methodical.  He 
went  away  sighing,  at  the  same  time  with  a  re- 
lieved heart.  One  of  the  hard  things  he  had  had 
to  do  in  his  life,  was  over. 

Mr.  Digby  however,  as  he  walked  homeward  to 
his  hotel,  saw  the  difficulties  yet  in  store  for  him. 
How  in  the  world  was  he  to  perform  his  promise 
of  taking  care  of  this  wildfire  girl?  Her  aunt 
surely,  would  be  the  fittest  person  to  be  intrusted 
with  her.  If  he  only  knew  what  sort  of  person 
Mrs.  Busby  really  was,  and  how  much  of  Mrs. 


176  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Carpenter's  story  might  have  two  sides  to  it  ?  The 
lady  was  not  in  the  city,  or  he  would  have  been 
tempted  to  go  and  see  her  at  once,  for  the  purpose 
of  studying  her  and  gathering  information.  Noth- 
ing of  the  kind  was  possible  at  present;  and  he 
could  only  hope  that  Mrs.  Carpenter's  frail  life 
would  be  prolonged  until  her  sister's  return  to  New 
York  would  lift,  or  might  lift,  one  difficulty  out  of 
his  path. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

FORT  WASHINGTON. 

NO  such  hope  was  to  be  realized.  With  all  that 
care  and  kindness  could  do,  the  sick  woman 
failed  more  and  more.  The  great  heats  weakened 
her.  The  drives  in  the  Park  were  refreshing,  but 
alas,  fatiguing,  and  sometimes  had  to  be  relin- 
quished ;  and  this  happened  again  and  again.  Ro- 
tha  behaved  un  exception  ably ;  was  devoted  to  the 
service  of  her  mother;  untiring,  and  unselfish,  and 
quiet;  "another  girl,"  Mrs.  Cord  said.  Poor  child! 
she  was  another  girl  in  more  ways  than  one;  her 
fiery  brightness  of  spirits  was  over,  her  cheeks 
grew  thin,  her  eyes  had  dark  rings  round  them, 
and  their  brown  depths  were  heavy  with  a  shadow 
darker  yet.  Energetic  she  was,  as  ever,  but  in  a 
more  staid  and  womanly  way;  the  gladness  of  her 
doings  was  gone.  Still,  Mrs.  Carpenter  never 
saw  her  weep.  In  the  evenings,  or  in  the  twilight, 
when  there  was  nothing  particular  to  be  done,  the 
child  would  nestle  close  to  her  mother,  lay  her 
head  in  her  lap  or  rest  it  against  her  knee,  and  sit 
quiet.  Still,  at  least,  if  not  quiet;  Mrs.  Carpenter 

did  sometimes  fancy  that  she  felt  the  drawing  of  a 
(177) 


178  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

convulsive  breath ;  but  if  she  spoke  then  to  Rotha, 
Eotha  would  answer  with  a  specially  calm  and 
clear  voice;  and  her  mother  did  not  get  at  her 
sorrow,  if  it  were  that  which  moved  her.  And 
Mrs.  Carpenter  was  too  weak  now  to  try. 

Mr.  Digby  came  as  usual,  constantly.  It  was 
known  to  none  beside  himself,  that  he  staid  in  town 
through  the  hot  July  and  August  days  for  this 
purpose  solely.  He  saw  that  his  sick  friend  grew 
weaker  every  day,  yet  he  did  not  expect  after  all 
that  the  end  would  come  so  soon  as  it  did.  He 
had  yet  a  lingering  notion  of  bringing  the  sisters 
together,  when  Mrs.  Busby  should  return.  He  was 
thinking  of  this  one  August  afternoon  as  he  ap- 
proached the  house.  Mrs.  Marble  met  him  in  the 
hall. 

"Well,  Mr.  Digby,— it's  all  up  now!  " 

The  gentleman  paused  on  his  way  to  the  stairs 
and  looked  his  inquiry. 

"She  aint  there.  Warn't  she  a  good  woman, 
though !  "  And  Mrs.  Marble's  face  was  all  quiver- 
ing, and  some  big  tears  fell  from  the  full  eyes. 

"  Was  ?  "  said  Mr.  Digby.     "  You  do  not  mean — " 

"She's  gone.  Yes,  she's  gone.  And  I  guess 
she's  gone  to  the  good  land ;  and  I  guess  she  aint 
sorry  to  be  free;  but — I'm  sorry!  " 

For  a  few  minutes  the  kind  little  woman  hid  her 
face  in  her  apron,  and  sadly  blotched  with  tears 
the  apron  was  when  she  took  it  down. 

"  It's  all  over,"  she  repeated.  "  At  two  o'clock 
last  night,  she  just  slipped  off,  with  no  trouble  at 


FORT  WASHINGTON.  179 

all.  And  the  house  does  feel  as  lonely  as  if  fifty 
people  had  gone  out  of  it.  I  never  see  the  like  o' 
the  way  I  miss  her.  I'd  got  to  depend  on  her  living 
up  there,  and  it  was  good  to  think  of  it;  there 
warn't  no  noise,  more'n  if  nobody  had  been  up 
there;  but  if  I  aint  good  myself — and  I  don't 
think  I  be — I  do  love  to  have  good  folks  round. 
She  was  good.  I  never  see  a  better.  It's  been  a 
blessin'  to  the  house  ever  since  she  come  into  it; 
and  I  always  said  so.  An'  she's  gone  !  " 

"Where  is  Rotha?" 

"  Rotha  !  0  she's  up  there.  I  guess  wild  horses 
wouldn't  get  her  away.  I  tried;  I  tried  to  get  her 
to  come  down  and  have  some  breakfast  with  me ; 
but  la !  she  thinks  she  can  live  on  air ;  or  I  suppose 
she  don't  think  about  it." 

"How  is  she?" 

"Queer.  She  is  always  a  queer  child.  I  can't 
make  her  out.  And  I  wanted  to  consult  you  about 
her,  sir ;  what's  to  be  done  with  Rotha  ?  who'll 
take  care  of  her?  She's  just  an  age  to  want  care. 
She'll  be  as  wild  as  a  hawk  if  she's  let  loose  to 
manage  herself." 

"  I  thought  she  was  very  quiet." 

"  Maybe,  up  stairs.  But  just  let  anybody  touch 
her  down  here,  in  a  way  she  don't  like,  and  you'd 
see  the  sparks  fly !  If  you  want  to  know  how, 
just  take  and  knock  a  firebrand  against  the  chim- 
ney back." 

"  Who  would  touch  her,  here?"  asked  the  gentle- 
man. 


180  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"La!  nobody,  except  with  a  question  maybe,  or  a 
bit  of  advice.  I  shouldn't  like  to  take  hold  of  her 
any  other  way.  I  never  did  see  a  more  masterful 
piece  of  human  nature,  of  fourteen  years  old  or 
any  other  age.  She  aint  a  bad  child  at  all;  I'm 
not  meaning  that;  but  her  mother  let  her  have  her 
own  way,  and  I  guess  she  couldn't  help  it.  It'll  be 
worse  for  Rotha  now,  for  the  world  aint  like  that 
spring  chair  you  had  fetched  for  her  poor  mother. 
You've  been  an  angel  of  mercy  in  that  room,  sure 
enough." 

Mr.  Digby  passed  the  good  woman  and  began  to 
ascend  the  stairs. 

"  I  wanted  to  ask  you  about  Rotha,"  Mrs.  Mar- 
ble persisted,  speaking  up  over  the 'bannisters,  "be- 
cause, if  that  was  the  best,  I  would  take  her  myself 
and  bring  her  up  to  my  business.  I  don't  know 
who  is  to  manage  things  now,  or  settle  anything." 

"I  will,"  said  Mr.  Digby.  "Thank  you,  Mrs. 
Marble;  I  will  see  you  again." 

" '  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Marble,  I  don't  want  you,' 
that  means,"  said  the  little  woman  as  she  retreated 
to  her  own  apartments.  "There's  somebody  else  a 
little  bit  masterful,  I  expect.  Well,  it's  all  right  for 
the  men,  I  s'pose,  at  least  if  they  take  a  good  turn ; 
any  way,  we  can't  help  it ;  but  for  a  girl  that  aint 
fifteen  yet, — it  aint  so  agreeable.  And  poor  child! 
who'll  have  patience  with  her  now  ?  " 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Digby  went  up  stairs  and  softly 
opened  the  door  of  the  sitting  room.  For  some 
time  ago,  since  Mrs.  Carpenter  became  more  feeble, 


FORT  WASHINGTON.  181 

he  had  insisted  on  her  having  her  old  sleeping 
apartment  again,  other  quarters  being  found  or 
made  for  Mrs.  Cord  in  the  house.  Mrs.  Cord  had 
naturally  assumed  the  duties  of  her  profession, 
which  was  that  of  a  nurse ;  for  the  sake  of  which, 
knowing  that  they  would  be  needed,  Mr.  Digby 
had  first  introduced  her  here. 

At  the  window  of  the  sitting  room,  looking  out 
into  the  street,  Rotha  was  sitting  listlessly.  No 
one  else  was  in  the  room.  She  turned  her  head 
when  she  heard  Mr.  Digby's  footsteps,  and  the  face 
he  saw  then  smote  his  heart.  It  was  such  a 
changed  face;  wan  and  pale,  with  the  rings  round 
the  eyes  that  come  of  excessive  weeping,  and  a 
blank,  dull  expression  in  the  eyes  themselves 
which  was  worse  yet.  She  did  not  move,  nor 
give  any  gesture  of  greeting,  but  looked  at  the 
young  man  entering  as  if  neither  he  nor  anything 
else  in  the  world  concerned  her. 

Mr.  Digby  felt  then,  what  everybody  with  a 
heart  has  felt  at  one  time  or  another,  that  the  office 
of  comforter  is  the  most  difficult  in  the  world.  In 
one  thing  at  least  he  imitated  Job's  friends;  he  was 
silent.  He  came  close  up  to  the  girl  and  stood 
there,  looking  down  at  her.  But  she  turned  her 
wan  face  away  from  him  and  looked  out  of  the 
window  again.  She  looked,  but  he  was  sure  she 
saw  nothing.  He  did  not  venture  to  touch  her; 
he  saw  that  she  was  not  open  to  the  least  token  of 
tenderness;  such  a  token  would  surely  turn  her 
apathetic  calm  into  irritation. 


182  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Perhaps  even  his  standing  there  had  some  such 
effect ;  for  after  a  little  while,  Rotha  said, 

"Won't  you  sit  down,  Mr.  Digby?" 

He  sat  down,  and  waited.  However,  people  do 
not  live  in  these  days  to  be  several  hundred  years 
old;  and  proportionately,  seven  days  of  silence 
would  be  more  of  that  sort  of  sympathy  than  can 
be  shewn  since  Job's  time.  Yet  what  to  say,  Mr. 
Digby  was  profoundly  doubtful.  Finding  nothing 
that  would  do,  of  his  own,  he  took  his  little  Testa- 
ment from  his  pocket,  and  turning  the  leaves  aim- 
lessly came  upon  the  eleventh  chapter  of  the  Gos- 
pel of  John.  He  began  at  the  beginning  and  read 
slowly  and  quietly  on  till  he  came  to  the  words, 

'"Then  said  Martha  unto  Jesus,  Lord,  if  thou 
hadst  been  here,  my  brother  had  not  died.  But  I 
know,  that  even  now,  whatsoever  thou  wilt  ask  of 
God,  God  will  give  it  thee. 

"'Jesus  said  unto  her,  Thy  brother  shall  rise 
again.' — " 

"Please  don't,  Mr.  Digby!"  said  Rotha,  who  after 
a  few  verses  had  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"Don't  what?" 

'*  Don't  read  any  more.' 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  know  how  it  goes  on.  I  know  what  he  did. 
But  he  will  not  do  that — here." 

"  Yes,  he  will.    Not  immediately,  but  by  and  by." 

"  I  don't  care  for  by  and  by." 

"Yes  you  do,  Rotha.  By  and  by  the  Lord  Jesus 
will  come  again ;  and  when  he  comes  he  will  send 


FORT  WASHINGTON.  183 

his  angels  to  gather  up  and  bring  to  him  all  his 
people  who  are  then  living,  scattered  about  in  the 
world,  and  at  the  same  time  all  his  people  who 
once  lived  and  have  died  shall  be  raised  up.  Then 
will  come  your  dear  mother,  with  the  rest,  in  beauty 
and  glory." 

"But,"  said  Rotha,  bursting  out  into  violent  sobs, 
"  I  don't  know  where  I  shall  be ! " — 

The  paroxysm  of  tears  and  sobs  that  followed, 
startled  Mr.  Digby;  it  was  so  extreme  in  its'  pas- 
sion beyond  anything  he  had  ever  seen  in  his  life ; 
even  beyond  her  passion  on  the  sea  shore.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  girl  must  almost  strangle  in  her 
convulsive  oppression  of  breath.  He  tried  sooth- 
ing words,  and  he  tried  authority;  and  both  were 
as  vain  as  the  recoil  of  waves  from  a  rock.  The 
passion  spent  itself  by  degrees,  and  was  succeeded 
by  a  more  gentle,  persistent  rain  of  tears  which 
fell  quietly. 

"Rotha,"  said  Mr.  Digby  gravely,  "that  is  not 
right." 

"Very  likely,"  she  answered.  "How  are  you 
going  to  help  it?" 

"I  cannot;  but  you  can." 

"  I  can't  I "  she  exclaimed,  with  almost  a  cry. 
"When  it  comes,  I  must." 

"No,  my  child;  you  must  learn  self-command." 

"  How  can  I  ?  "  she  said  doggedly. 

"  By  making  it  your  rule,  that  you  will  always 
do  what  is  right — not  what  you  like." 

"  It  never  was  my  rule." 


184  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Perhaps.  But  do  you  mean  that  it  never  shall 
be?" 

There  followed  a  long  silence,  during  which  Ro- 
tha's  tears  gradually  stilled;  but  she  said  nothing, 
and  Mr.  Digby  let  her  alone.  After  this  time,  she 
rose  and  came  to  him  and  laid  one  hand  half  tim- 
idly, half  confidingly,  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  Mr.  Digby,"  she  said  softly,  "  because  I  am  so 
wicked,  will  you  get  tired  and  forsake  me  ?  " 

"  Never !  "  he  answered  heartily,  putting  his  arm 
round  the  forlorn  child  and  drawing  her  a  little 
nearer.  And  Rotha,  in  her  forlornness  and  in  the 
gentle  mood  that  had  come  over  her,  laid  her  head 
down  on  his  shoulder,  or  rather  in  his  neck,  nest- 
ling to  him.  It  was  an  unconscious,  mute  appeal 
to  his  kindness  and  for  his  kindness ;  it  was  a  very 
unconscious  testimony  of  Rotha's  trust  and  depend- 
ence on  him;  it  was  very  child-like,  but  coming 
from  this  girl  who  was  so  nearly  not  a  child,  it 
moved  the  young  man  strangely.  He  had  no  sis- 
ters; the  feeling  of  Rotha's  silky,  thick  locks  against 
the  side  of  his  face  and  the  clinging  appeal  of  her 
hand  and  head  on  his  shoulder,  gave  him  an  entirely 
new  sensation.  All  that  was  manly  in  him  stirred 
to  meet  the  appeal,  and  at  the  same  time  Rotha  took 
a  suddenly  different  place  in  his  thoughts  and  re- 
gards. He  was  glad  Mrs.  Cord  was  not  there  to 
see;  but  if  she  had  been,  I  think  he  would  have 
done  just  the  same.  He  drew  the  girl  close  to 
him,  and  laid  his  other  hand  tenderly  upon  those 
•waving,  thick,  dark  locks  of  hair. 


FORT  WASHINGTON.  185 

"  I  will  never  forsake  you,  Rotba.  I  will  never  be 
tired.  You  shall  be  like  my  own  little  sister;  for 
your  mother  left  you  in  my  charge,  and  you  belong 
to  me  now,  and  to  nobody  else  in  the  world." 

She  accepted  it  quietly,  making  no  response  at 
all;  her  violent  passion  had  been  succeeded  by  a 
gentle,  subdued  mood.  Favourable  for  saying  sev- 
eral things  and  making  sundry  arrangements;  only 
that  just  then  was  not  the  time  that  would  do. 
Both  of  them  remained  still  and  silent,  Mr.  Digby 
thinking  this  among  other  things;  poor  Rotha 
was  hardly  thinking  at  all,  any  more  than  a  ship- 
wrecked man  just  flung  ashore  by  the  waves,  and 
clinging  to  the  rock  that  has  saved  him  from 
sweeping  out  to  sea  again,  lie  blesses  the  rock, 
maybe,  but  it  is  no  time  for  considering  anything. 
The  one  idea  is  to  hold  fast;  and  Rotha  mentally 
did  it,  with  an  intensity  of  trust  and  clinging  that 
her  protector  never  guessed  at. 

"  Then  I  must  do  what  you  say,  now  ?  "  she  re- 
marked after  a  while. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  he  answered,  much  struck  by 
this  tone  of  docility. 

"  I  will  try,  Mr.  Digby." 

"  Will  you  trust  me  too,  Rotha  ?  " 

"  For  what  ?  " 

"  I  mean,  will  you  trust  me  that  what  I  do  for  you, 
or  want  you  to  do,  is  the  best  thing  to  be  done  ?  " 

Rotha  lifted  her  head  from  his  shoulder  and 
looked  at  him. 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  "  she  asked. 


186  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"Nothing,  to-day;  by  and  by,  perhaps  many 
things.  My  question  was  general." 

"  Whether  I  will  trust  that  what  you  say  is  the 
best?" 

"Yes." 

"  Mr.  Digby,  mightn't  you  be  mistaken  ?  " 

"  Rotha,  might  not  you  ?  And  would  it  not  be 
more  likely  ?  " 

Rotha  began  to  reflect  that  in  her  past  life  she 
had  not  been  wont  to  give  such  unbounded  trust 
to  anybody;  not  even  to  her  father,  and  not  cer- 
tainly to  her  mother.  She  had  sometimes  thought 
them  mistaken ;  how  could  she  help  that  ?  and  how 
could  she  help  it  in  any  other  case,  if  circumstances 
warranted  it?  But  with  the  thought  of  her  mother, 
tears  rose  again,  and  she  did  not  speak.  Just  then 
Mrs.  Cord  came  iu. 

"01  am  glad  you  are  there,  sir ! "  she  began. 
"  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you,  if  you  please." 

Mr.  Digby  unclosed  his  arm  from  about  Rotha, 
and  she  withdrew  quietly  to  her  former  station  by 
the  window.  The  other  two  went  into  the  adjoin- 
ing room,  and  there  Mrs.  Cord  received  instruction 
and  information  as  to  various  points  of  the  ar- 
rangements for  the  next  few  days. 

"  And  what  will  I  do  with  Rotha,  sir  ?  "  she  asked 
finally. 

"  Do  with  her  ?     In  what  respect  ?  " 

"  She  won't  eat,  sir." 

"  She  will,  I  fancy,  the  next  time  it  is  proposed 
to  her." 


FORT  WASHINGTON.  187 

"She's  very  hard  to  manage,"  said  Mrs.  Cord, 
shaking  her  head.  "  She  will  have  her  own  way, 
always." 

«  Well— let  her  have  it." 

"  But  other  people  won't,  sir;  and  I  think  it's  bad 
for  her.  She's  had  it,  pretty  much,  all  along;  but 
now — she  don't  care  for  what  I  say,  no  more'n  if  I 
was  a  post !  Nor  Mrs.  Marble,  nor  anybody.  And 
is  Mrs.  Marble  going  to  take  her,  sir  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all.     Her  mother  left  her  in  my  care." 

"Oh — !"  said  the  good  woman,  with  a  rather 
prolonged  accent  of  mystification  and  disappro- 
bation; wondering,  no  doubt,  what  disposal  Mr. 
Digby  could  make  of  her,  better  than  with  Mrs. 
Marble;  but  not  venturing  to  ask. 

"Nothing  can  be  done,  till  after  the  funeral,"  the 
young  man  went  on.  "  Take  all  the  care  of  her  you 
can  until  then.  By  the  way,  if  you  can  give  me 
something  to  eat,  I  will  lunch  here.  If  you  have 
nothing  in  the  house,  I  can  get  something  in  a  few 
minutes." 

Mrs.  Cord  was  very  much  surprised;  however, 
she  assured  Mr.  Digby  that  there  was  ample  supply 
in  the  house,  and  went  on,  still  with  a  mystified 
and  dissatisfied  feeling,  to  prepare  and  produce  it. 
She  knew  how,  and  very  nicely  an  impromptu  meal 
was  spread  in  a  few  minutes.  Mr.  Digby  mean- 
while went  out  and  got  some  fruit;  and  then  he 
and  liotha  sat  down  together.  Kotha  was  utterly 
gentle  and  docile ;  did  what  he  bade  her  and  took 
what  he  gave  her;  inrlexl  it  was  plain  the  poor 


188  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

child  was  in  sore  need  of  food,  which  she  had  had 
thus  far  no  heart  to  eat.  Mr.  Digby  prolonged  the 
meal  as  much  as  he  could,  that  he  might  spend 
the  more  time  with  her;  and  when  he  went  away, 
asked  her  to  lie  down  and  go  to  sleep. 

Those  must  be  heavy  days,  he  knew,  till  the 
funeral  was  over.  What  then?  It  was  a  ques- 
tion. Mrs.  Busby  would  not  be  in  town  perhaps 
before  the  end  of  September;  and  here  it  was 
the  middle  of  August.  Near  two  months  of  hoi 
weather  to  intervene.  What  should  he  do?  Ho 
would  willingly  be  out  of  the  city  himself;  and  for 
Kotha,  the  spending  all  these  weeks  in  her  mother's 
old  rooms,  in  August  weather,  and  with  Mrs.  Cord 
and  Mrs.  Marble  for  companions,  did  not  seem  ex- 
pedient. It  would  be  good  for  neither  body  nor 
mind.  But  he  could  not  take  her  to  any  place  of 
public  resort ;  that  would  not  be  expedient  either. 
He  pondered  and  pondered,  and  was  very  busy  for 
the  next  two  or  three  days. 

The  result  of  which  activity  was,  that  he  took 
rooms  in  a  pleasant  house  at  Washington  Heights, 
overlooking  the  river,  and  removed  Rotha  there, 
with  Mrs.  Cord  to  look  after  her.  But  as  he  him- 
self also  took  up  his  abode  in  the  house,  Mrs. 
Cord's  supervision  was  confined  to  strictly  secon- 
dary matters.  He  had  his  meals  in  company 
with  Rotha,  and  was  with  her  most  of  the  time, 
and  was  the  sole  authority  to  which  she  was 
obliged  to  refer. 

It  was  an  infinite  blessing  to  the  child,  whose 


FORT  WASHINGTON.  189 

heart  was  very  sore,  and  who  stood  in  need  of  very 
judicious  handling.  And  somewhat  to  Mr.  Digby's 
surprise,  it  was  not  a  bore  to  himself.  The  pleasure 
of  ministering  is  always  a  pleasure,  especially  when 
the  need  is  very  great ;  it  is  also  a  pleasure  to  ex- 
cite and  to  receive  affection ;  and  he  presently  saw, 
with  some  astonishment,  that  he  was  doing  this 
also.  Certainly  it  was  not  a  thing  in  the  circum- 
stances to  be  astonished  at;  and  it  moved  Mr. 
Digby  so,  simply  because  he  was  so  far  from  think- 
ing of  himself  in  his  present  plan  of  action.  All 
the  pleasanter  perhaps  it  was,  when  he  saw  that 
the  forlorn  girl  was  hanging  upon  him  all  the  de- 
pendence of  a  very  trusting  nature,  and  giving  to 
him  all  the  wealth  of  a  passionate  power  of  loving. 
This  came  by  degrees. 

At  first,  in  a  strange  place  and  with  new  sur- 
roundings and  utterly  changed  life,  the  girl  was 
exceedingly  forlorn.  The  days  passed  in  alterna- 
tions of  violent  outbreaks  of  grief  and  fits  of  seeming 
apathy,  which  I  suppose  were  simply  nature's  reac- 
tion from  overstrain  and  exhaustion.  The  violence 
she  rarely  shewed  in  Mr.  Digby's  presence;  Rotha 
was  taking  her  first  lessons  in  self-command ;  never- 
theless he  saw  the  work  that  was  going  on,  knew 
it  must  be,  for  a  time,  and  wisely  abstained  from 
interference  with  it.  " There  is  a  time  to  weep"; 
and  he  knew  it  was  now;  comfort  would  be  mock- 
ery. He  was  satisfied  that  Rotha  should  have  so 
much  diversion  from  her  sorrow  as  his  presence  oc- 
casioned; that  she  should  be  obliged  to  meet  him 


190  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

at  meals,  and  to  behave  then  with  a  certain  degree 
of  outward  calm,  and  the  necessary  attention  to 
little  matters;  all  useful  in  a  sort  of  slow,  unnoticed 
way.  Otherwise  for  a  few  days  he  let  her  alone. 
But  then  he  began  to  give  her  things  to  do.  Les- 
sons were  taken  up  again,  by  degrees  multiplied, 
until  Rotha's  time  was  well  filled  with  occupation. 
It  went  very  hard  at  first.  Rotha  even  ventured 
on  a  little  passive  rebellion ;  even  declared  she  could 
not  study.  Mr.  Digby  shewed  her  that  she  could ; 
helped  her,  led  her  on,  and  let  her  see  finally  that 
he  expected  certain  things  of  her,  which  she  could 
not  neglect  without  coming  to  an  open  rupture 
with  him.  That  was  impossible.  Rotha  bent  her 
will  to  do  what  was  required  of  her ;  and  from  that 
time  the  difficulty  of  Mr.  Digby 's  task  was  over. 
She  began  soon  to  be  interested  again  in  what  she 
was  about  and  to  make  excellent  progress.  Then 
Mr.  Digby  would  put  himself  in  a  hammock  on  the 
piazza  or  out  under  a  great  walnut-tree,  and  make 
Rotha  read  to  him,  and  incite  her  to  talk  of  what 
she  read;  or  he  would  give  her  lessons  in  drawing; 
both  occasions  of  the  utmost  gratification  to  Rotha ; 
and  when  the  scorching  sun  had  got  low  down  over 
the  Palisades,  he  would"  take  her  in  an  easy  little 
vehicle  and  go  for  a  long  drive.  So  one  way  and 
another  they  came  to  be  together  all  the  time.  And 
after  the  first  miserable  days  were  past,  and  Rotha 
had  been  constrained  to  busy  herself  with  some- 
thing besides  herself;  her  mental  powers  called  into 
vigorous  exertion  and  furnished  with  an  abundant 


FORT  WASHINGTON.  191 

supply  of  new  food ;  by  degrees  a  sort  of  enjoyment 
began  to  creep  into  her  life  again,  and  grew,  and 
grew.  It  was  a  help,  that  everything  was  so  strange 
about  her.  Even  her  own  dress. 

"  Mrs.  Cord,"  Mr.  Digby  had  said  in  the  first 
week  of  this  new  life, — "how  is  Kotha  off  for 
clothes  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  the  nurse,  "of  course  they  were 
people  not  likely  to  have  much  of  that  sort  of  thing ; 
but  Rotha  has  what  will  do  her  through  the  warm 
season." 

"  But  is  she  supplied  as  a  young  lady  ought  to 
be,  with  everything  needful"?  " 

"As  a  young  lady  ! — no,  sir.  It's  what  she  never 
set  up  for,  and  don't  need,  and  knows  nothing 
about.  Her  mother  was  a  very  good  woman,  and 
didn't  pretend  to  dress  her  as  a  young  lady.  But 
she's  comfortable." 

Mr.  Digby  half  smiled  at  the  collocation  of 
things,  however  he  went  on  with  full  serious- 
ness. 

"  She  will  go  to  school  by  and  by,  and  she  will 
go  there  as  a  young  lady.  I  wish,  Mrs.  Cord, 
you  would  see  to  it,  as  far  as  you  know,  that  she 
has  a  full  supply  of  everything.  Go  to  one  of 
the  best  shops  for  outfits  and  get  plenty  of  every 
thing  and  of  good  quality,  and  send  the  bills 
to  me.  And  get  Mrs.  Marble  to  make  her  some 
dresses." 

"Mourning,  sir?" 

"  No.     Simple  things,  but  no  black." 


192  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  I  asked,  because  it's  customary,  sir." 

"  It's  a  bad  custom ;  better  broken." 

"  Then  what  shall  I  get,  sir  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Cord 
with  unwonted  stolidity. 

"  You  need  not  get  anything.  I  will  see  to  it 
myself.  Only  the  linen  and  all  that,  Mrs.  Cord, 
which  I  should  not  know  how  to  get.  The  rest  I 
will  take  care  of." 

And  he  took  such  good  care,  that  the  good 
woman  was  filled  with  a  displeased  surprise  which 
was  inexplicable.  Why  should  she  be  displeased  ? 
Yet  Mrs.  Cord  was  quite  "put  about,"  as  she  said, 
when  the  things  came  home.  They  were  simple 
things,  indeed;  a  few  muslins  and  ginghams  and 
the  like.  But  the  ginghams  were  fine  and  beau- 
tiful, and  the  muslins  of  delicate  patterns  and  ex- 
cellent quality;  and  with  them  came  a  set  of  fine 
cambrick  handkerchiefs,  and  ruffles,  and  lace,  and 
a  little  parasol,  and  a  light  summer  wrap;  for 
Kotha  had  nothing  to  put  on  that  made  her  fit  to 
go  to  drive  with  her  guardian.  He  had  taken  her, 
all  the  same,  dressed  as  she  was,  but  it  seems  he 
thought  there  must  be  a  change  in  this  state  of 
things.  Mrs.  Cord  was  full  of  dissatisfaction;  and 
when  she  took  the  dresses  to  Mrs.  Marble  to  be 
made  up,  the  two  good  women  held  a  regular  pow 
wow  over  them. 

"  Muslin  like  that ! "  cried  the  little  mantua- 
maker  with  an  expression  of  strong  distaste. 
"Why  that  never  cost  less  than  fifty  cents,  Mrs. 
Cord !  My  word,  it  didn't." 


FORT  WASHINGTON.  193 

"  Just  think  of  it !  And  for  that  girl,  who  never 
wore  anything  but  sixpenny  calico  if  she  could 
get  it.  Men  are  the  stupidest ! — " 

"  That  ashes-of-roses  lawn  is  the  prettiest  thing 
I've  seen  yet.  Mrs.  Cord,  she  don't  want  all 
these?" 

"So  I  say,"  returned  the  nurse;  "but  I  wasn't 
consulted.  That  aint  all;  you  should  have  seen 
the  ruffles,  and  the  ribbands,  and  the  pockethand- 
kerchiefs;  and  then  he  took  her  somewhere,  Stew- 
art's, I  shouldn't  wonder,  and  got  her  gloves  arid 
gloves;  and  then  a  lovely  Leghorn  hat,  with  a 
britn  wide  enough  to  swallow  her  up.  And  now 
you  must  make  up  these  muslins,  and  let  us  have 
one  soon;  for  my  master  is  in  a  hurry." 

The  little  mantua-maker  contemplated  the  mus- 
lins, and  things  generally. 

"  There's  not  the  first  sign  o'  black  among  'em 
all !  Not  a  line,  nor  a  sprig,  nor  a  dot." 

"  Maybe  that's  English  ways,"  returned  the  nurse ; 
"  but  if  it  is,  I  never  heerd  so  before." 

"  Well  I  like  to  see  mournin'  put  on,  if  it's  only 
respect,"  went  on  the  dress-maker;  "and  a  girl 
hadn't  ought  to  be  learnt  to  forget  her  own  mo- 
ther, before  she's  well  out  of  sight.  I'd  ha'  dressed 
her  in  black,  poor  as  I  am,  and  not  a  sign  o 
white  about  her,  for  one  year  at  least.  I  think 
it  looks  sort  o'  rebellious,  to  do  without  it.  Why 
I've  known  folks  that  would  put  on  mourning  if 
they  hadn't  enough  to  eat;  and  I  admire  that  sort 
o'  .,perit." 


194  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

The  nurse  nodded. 

"  Just  look  here,  now !  What's  he  thinkin'  about, 
Mrs.  Cord?" 

"  Just  that  question  I've  been  askin'  myself,  Mrs. 
Marble ;  and  I  can't  get  no  answer  to  it." 

'•  What's  he  goin'  to  do  with  her  ?  " 

"  He  says,  send  her  to  school." 

"  These  aint  for  school  dresses." 

"O  no;  these  are  to  go  ridin'  about  in,  with 
him." 

"  Well  /  think,  somebody  ought  to  take  charge 
of  her.  A  young  man  like  that,  aint  the  person 
to  do  it  Taint  likely  he's  goin'  to  bring  her  up  to 
marry  her,  I  suppose." 

"She's  too  young  for  such  thoughts,"  said  the 
nurse. 

"  She's  young,  but  she  aint  far  from  bein'  older," 
Mrs.  Marble  went  on  significantly.  "  When  a  girl's 
once  got  to  fifteen,  she's  seventeen  before  you  can 
turn  round." 

"  There'll  have  to  be  somebody  else  to  wait  upon 
her,  I  know,  besides  me,"  returned  the  nurse. 
"  That  aint  my  business.  And  it's  all  I'm  wanted 
for  now.  Nobody  can  say  a  word  to  my  young 
lady  if  it  isn't  the  gentleman  hisself;  and  she's 
with  him  all  the  while,  and  not  with  me.  I  aint 
goin'  to  put  up  with  it  long,  I  can  tell  'em." 

Mr.  Digby's  pay  was  good  however,  and  Mrs. 
Cord  did  not  find  it  convenient  to  give  notice  im- 
mediately; and  also  the  muslin  dresses  were  made 
and  well  made,  and  sent  home  to  the  day. 


FORT  WASHINGTON.  195 

All  these  her  new  possessions  and  equipments 
were  regarded  by  Rotha  herself  with  a  mixture 
of  pleasure  and  mortification.  The  pleasure  was 
undeniable ;  the  girl  had  a  nice  sense  of  the  fitness 
of  things,  inborn  and  natural  and  only  needing 
cultivation.  It  was  getting  cultivation  fast.  She 
had  a  subtle  perception  that  the  new  style  of  living 
into  which  she  had  come  was  superior  to  the  old 
ways  in  which  she  had  been  brought  up;  not 
merely  in  the  vulgar  item  of  costliness,  but  in 
the  far  higher  qualities  of  refinement  and  propri- 
ety and  beauty.  Her  mother  and  father  had  been 
indeed  essentially  refined  people,  of  good  sense 
and  good  taste  as  far  as  their  knowledge  went. 
Rotha  began  to  perceive  that  it  had  stopped  short 
a  good  deal  below  the  desirable  point.  Also  she  felt 
herself  thoroughly  in  harmony  with  the  new  life,  lit- 
tle as  she  had  known  of  it  hitherto ;  and  was  keen 
to  discern  and  quick  to  adopt  every  fresh  point  of 
greater  refinement  in  habits  and  manners.  Mr. 
Digby  now  and  then  at  table  would  say  quietly, 
"  This  is  the  better  way,  Rotha," — or,  "  Suppose  you 
try  it  so." — He  never  had  to  give  such  a  hint  a 
second  time.  He  never  had  to  tell  her  anything 
twice.  What  he  did,  Rotha  held  to  be  "wisest, 
discreetest,  best,"  the  supreme  model  in  every- 
thing; and  she  longed  with  a  kind  of  passion  to 
be  like  him  in  these,  and  in  all  matters.  So  it  was 
with  a  gush  of  great  satisfaction  that  the  girl  for 
the  first  time  saw  herself  well  and  nicely  dressed. 
She  knew  the  difference  between  her  old  and  her 


196  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

new  garments,  knew  it  correctly;  did  not  place 
the  advantage  of  the  latter  in  their  colour  or  fine- 
ness ;  but  recognized  .quite  well  that  now  she  looked 
as  if  she  belonged  to  Mr.  Digby,  while  before,  no- 
body could  have  thought  so  for  a  moment.  The 
pleasure  was  keen.  Yet  it  mingled,  as  I  said,  with 
a  sting  of  mortification.  Not  simply  that  her  new 
things  were  his  gift  and  came  to  her  out  of  his 
bounty,  though  she  felt  that  part  of  the  whole 
business;  but  it  pained  her  to  feel  that  her  own 
father  and  mother  had  stood  below  anybody  in 
knowledge  of  the  world  and  use  of  its  elegant 
proprieties.  Rotha  was  perfectly  clear-sighted, 
and  knew  it,  from  the  very  keen  delight  with 
which  she  herself  accepted  and  welcomed  this 
new  initiation. 

The  prevailing  feeling  however  was  the  pleas- 
ure; though  in  Rotha's  face  and  manner  I  may 
say  there  was  no  trace  of  it,  the  first  day  she 
was  what  Mr.  Digby  would  have  called  "  properly 
dressed,"  and  met  him  in  their  little  sitting  room. 
She  came  in  gravely,  (she  was  already  trying  to 
imitate  his  quietness  of  manner)  and  came  straight 
up  to  Mr.  Digby  where  he  was  standing  in  the 
window.  Rotha  waited  a  minute,  and  then  looked 
up  at  him,  blushing. 

"Do  you  like  it?"  she  asked  frankly. 

His  eye  caught  the  new  muslin,  and  he  stepped 
back  a  step  to  take  a  view. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  smiling.  "  That's  very  well.  Is 
it  comfortable  ?  " 


FORT  WASHINGTON.  197 

"Oyes." 

"  That's  well,"  he  said.  "  I  always  think  it  the 
prime  question  in  a  coat,  whether  it  is  comfort- 
able." 

He  came  back  to  his  place  in  the  window,  so 
making  an  end  of  the  subject;  but  Botha  had  not 
said  all  that  she  wished  to  say. 

"  Mrs.  Cord  wanted  me  to  put  this  on  to-day, 
though  it  waa  not  Sunday;  was  she  right?  " 

"Eight?  certainly.  Why  should  one  be  better 
dressed  Sunday  than  any  other  day?" 

"  I  thought  people  did — "  said  Rotha,  much  con- 
fused in  her  ideas. 

"  And  right  enough,"  said  Mr.  Digby,  recollect- 
ing himself,  "in  the  cases  where  the  work  to  be 
done  in  the  week  would  injure  or  soil  a  good  dress. 
But  in  other  cases? — " 

"On  Sunday  one  goes  to  church,"  said  Rotha. 

"  Well,— what  then  ?  " 

"Oughtn't  one  to  be  better  dressed  to  go  to 
church?" 

"Why  should  you?" 

Rotha  was  so  much  confounded  that  she  had 
nothing  to  say.  This  was  overturning  all  her 
traditions. 

"  What  do  you  go  to  church  for,  Rotha  ?  " 

"I  ought  to  go — to  think  about  God,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"Well,  and  would  much  dressing  help  you?" 

Rotha  considered.  "  I  don't  think  it  helps 
much,"  she  confessed. 


"198  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  You  say,  you  ought  to  go  for  such  a  reason ; — 
what  is  your  real  reason  ?  " 

"  For  going  ?  Because  mother  took  me;  or  made 
me  go  without  her." 

"You  are  honest,"  said  Mr.  Digby  smiling. 
"You  will  agree  with  me  that  that  is  a  poor 
reason;  but  I  am  glad  you  understand  yourself, 
and  are  not  deceived  about  it." 

"  I  don't  think  I  understand  myself,  Mr.  Digby." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because,  sometimes  I  am  in  great  confusion, 
and  can  not  understand  myself. " 

"  Let  me  help  you  when  those  times  come." 

"  One  of  the  times  is  to-day,"  said  Rotha  in  a 
low  tone. 

"Ah?  What's  the  matter?"  said  he  looking 
down  kindly  at  her.  Rotha  had  laid  her  forehead 
against  the  edge  of  the  window  frame,  and  was 
looking  out  with  an  intent  grave  eye  which  amused 
him,  and  made  him  curious  too. 

"  Because  I  want  to  tell  you  something  of  how 
£  feel,  Mr.  Digby,  and  I  cannot." — (He  had  told 
her  not  to  say  cant,  and  now  she  never  did.)  "  It's 
all  mixed  up,  and  I  don't  know  what  comes  first; 
and  you  will  think  I  am — ungrateful." 

"  Never  in  the  world !  "  said  he  heartily.  "  I 
shall  never  think  that.  I  think  I  know  you  pretty 
well,  Rotha." 

Yet  he  was  hardly  prepared  for  the  look  she 
gave  him ;  a  glance  only,  but  so  intent,  so  warm, 
so  laden  with  gratitude,  ay,  and  so  burdened  with 


FORT  WASHINGTON.  199 

a  yet  deeper  feeling,  that  Mr.  Digby  was  well 
nigh  startled.  It  was  not  the  flash  of  brilliancy 
of  which  Rotha's  eyes  were  quite  capable ;  it  was  a 
rarer  thing,  the  dark  glow  of  a  hidden  fire,  true, 
and  deep,  and  pure,  and  unconscious  of  itself.  It 
gave  the  young  man  something  to  think  of. 


CHAPTER  X. 

L'  HOMME  PROPOSE. 

MR.  DIGBY  thought  of  it  a  good  deal.  He  was 
obliged  to  recognize  the  fact,  that  this  friend- 
less child  was  pouring  upon  him  all  the  affection 
of  a  very  passionate  nature.  Child,  he  called  her 
in  his  thoughts,  and  yet  he  knew  quite  well  that 
the  time  was  not  distant  when  Rotha  would  be 
a  child  no  longer.  And  already  she  loved  him 
with  the  intensity  of  a  concentrated  power  of  lov- 
ing. Certainly  this  was  not  what  Mr.  Digby 
wished,  or  had  in  any  wise  contemplated  as  possi- 
ble, and  it  seemed  to  him  both  undesirable  and  in- 
convenient; and  yet, — it  is  sweet  to  be  loved;  and 
he  could  not  recall  that  intense  look  of  devotion 
without  a  certain  thrill.  Because  of  its  beauty,  he 
said  to  himself;  but  it  was  also  because  of  its  sig- 
nificance. He  read  Rotha;  he  knew  that  she  was 
one  of  those  natures  which  have  a  great  tendency 
to  concentration  of  affection ;  with  whom  the  flow 
of  feeling  is  apt  to  be  closed  in  to  a  narrow  chan- 
nel, and  in  that  channel  to  be  proportionately 
sweeping  and  powerful.  What  training  could 

best    be    applied   to    correct    this    tendency,    not 
200) 


L'  HOMME  PROPOSE.  201 

happy  for  the  possessor,  nor  beneficent  in  its 
effects  upon  others?  These  are  the  sort  of  natures 
that  when  untrained  and  ungoverned,  use  upon 
occasion  the  dagger  and  the  poison  cup;  or 
which  even  when  not  untrained  are  in  danger,  in 
certain  cases  of  shipwreck,  of  going  to  pieces  alto- 
gether. In  danger  at  all  times  of  unwise,  incon- 
siderate acting;  as  when  such  a  stream  meets  with 
resistance  and  breaks  its  bounds,  spreading  waste 
and  desolation  where  it  comes.  Truly,  he  trusted 
that  this  little  girl's  future  might  be  so  sheltered 
and  cared  for,  that  no  such  peril  might  overtake 
her;  but  how  could  he  know?  What  could  he 
do?  and  what  anyhow  was  to  be  the  outcome  of  all 
this  ?  It  was  very  pleasant  to  have  her  love  him, 
but  he  did  not  want  her  to  love  him  too  well.  At 
any  rate,  lie  could  not  be  her  tutor  permanently; 
he  had  something  else  to  do,  and  if  he  had  not,  the 
arrangement  would  be  inadmissible.  Mrs.  Busby 
would  return  to  town  in  a  few  weeks,  and  then — 
Yes,  there  was  nothing  else  to  do.  Rotha  must 
go  under  her  aunt's  care,  for  the  present.  How 
would  they  agree  ?  Mr.  Digby  did  not  feel  sure ; 
he  had  an  anticipation  that  the  change  would 
be  a  sore  trial  to  Rotha.  But — it  must  be  made. 
He  lay  in  his  hammock  one  day,  thinking  all 
this  over.  Rotha  was  sitting  near  him  drawing. 
She  was  always  near  him  when  she  could  be  so, 
though  a  spaniel  is  not  more  unobtrusive.  Nor 
indeed  half  as  much  so;  for  a  pet  dog  will  some- 
times try  to  attract  attention,  which  Rotha  never 


202  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

did.  She  was  content  and  happy  if  she  could  be 
near  her  one  friend  and  glance  at  him  from  time 
to  time.  And  lately  Rotha  had  become  extremely 
fond  of  her  pencil;  I  might  say,  of  all  the  studies 
Mr.  Digby  put  before  her.  Whatever  he  wished  her 
to  do,  she  did  with  a  will.  But  drawing  had  grown 
to  be  a  passion  with  her,  and  naturally  she  was 
making  capital  progress.  She  sat  absorbed  in  her 
work,  her  eyes  intently  going  from  her  model  to 
her  paper  and  back  again;  nevertheless,  every  now 
.  and  then  one  swift  glance  went  in  Mr.  Digby 's  di- 
rection. No  model,  living  or  dead,  equalled  in  her 
eyes  the  pleasantness  of  his  face  and  figure.  He 
caught  one  of  those  glances;  quick,  wistful,  watch- 
ful, and  meeting  his  eye  this  time,  it  softened  with 
an  inexplicable  sort  of  content.  The  young  man 
could  have  smiled,  but  that  the  look  somehow  gave 
him  a  touch  of  pain.  He  noticed  Rotha  more  par- 
ticularly, as  she  sat  at  her  drawing.  He  noticed 
aow  she  had  changed  for  the  better,  even  in  the  few 
weeks  since  they  came  to  Fort  Washington;  how 
her  face  had  refined,  grown  gentle  and  quiet,  and 
her  manners  correspondingly.  He  noticed  what  a 
good  face  it  was,  full  of  intelligence  and  latent 
power,  and  present  sensitiveness;  and  further- 
more, a  rare  thing  anywhere,  how  free  from  self- 
consciousness.  Full  of  life  and  of  eager  suscepti- 
bility as  Rotha  was  always,  she  seemed  to  have 
the  least  recollection  of  herself  and  her  own  ap- 
pearance. She  did  not  forget  her  new  dresses,  for 
instance,  but  she  looked  at  them  from  her  own 


L'  HOMME  PROPOSE.  203 

standpoint  and  not  from  that  of  an  imaginary 
spectator.  Mr.  Digby  drew  an  involuntary  sigh, 
and  Rotha  looked  up  again. 

"You  like  that  work,  Rotha,"  he  said. 

"  Very  much,  Mr.  Digby ! "  He  had  once  told 
her  to  be  moderate  in  her  expressions,  and  to  say 
always  less  than  she  felt,  rather  than  more.  Ro- 
tha never  forgot,  and  was  sedulously  reserved  in 
her  manner  of  making  known  what  she  felt. 

"But  Mr.  Digby,  it  is  very  difficult,"  she  went  on. 

"What?" 

"  To  make  anything  perfect." 

He  smiled.  "Very  difficult  indeed.  People  that 
aim  so  high  are  never  satisfied  with  what  they  do. " 

"  Then  is  it  better  to  aim  lower  ?  " 

"  By  no  means !  He  that  is  satisfied  with  him- 
self has  come  to  a  dead  stand-still ;  and  will  get  no 
further." 

"  But  must  one  be  always  dissatisfied  with  one- 
self?" 

"Yes;  if  one  is  ever  to  grow  to  a  richer  growth 
and  bring  forth  better  fruit.  And  anything  that 
stops  growing,  begins  to  die." 

Rotha  gave  him  a  peculiar,  thoughtful  look,  and 
then  went  on  with  her  drawing. 

"Understand  me,  Rotha,"  he  said,  catching  the 
look.  "  I  am  talking  of  the  dissatisfaction  of  a 
person  who  is  doing  his  best.  The  fact  that  one  is 
dissatisfied  when  not  doing  his  best,  proves  simply 
that  feeling  is  not  dead  yet.  There  is  no  comfort 
to  be  drawn  from  that." 


204  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Rotha  went  on  drawing  and  did  not  look  up, 
this  time.  Mr.  Digby  considered  how  he  should 
say  what  he  wanted  to  say. 

"  Rotha — "  he  began,  "  how  is  it  with  that  ques- 
tion you  were  once  concerned  about?  Are  you 
any  nearer  being  a  Christian  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,  sir.     I  do  not  think  I  am." 

"What  hinders?" 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Rotha,  playing  with  her  pencil 
absently, — "the  old  hindrance." 

"  You  do  not  wish  to  be  a  Christian." 

"  Yes,  sometimes  I  do.  Sometimes  I  do.  But 
I — cannot." 

"  I  should  feel  happier  about  you,  if  that  ques- 
tion were  well  settled." 

"  Why,  Mr.  Digby  ? "  said  Rotha,  answering 
rather  something  in  his  tone  than  in  his  words, 
and  looking  up  to  get  the  reply. 

"  Because,  Rotha,  you  take  hold  hard,  where  you 
take  hold  at  all ;  and  you  may  take  hold  of  some- 
thing that  will  fail  you." 

Her  eyes,  and  even  a  sudden  change  of  colour, 
put  a  startled  question  to  him.  He  smiled  as  he 
answered,  though  again  with  a  reminder  of  pain 
which  he  did  not  stop  to  analyse.  "  No,"  he  said, 
'I  will  never  fail  you,  Rotha;  never  voluntarily; 
but  I  have  no  command  over  my  own  life.  I 
would  like  you  to  have  a  trust  that  could  never 
lisappoint  you;  and  there  is  only  One  on  whom 
.such  a  trust  can  be  lodged.  He  who  is  resting  on 
Christ,  is  resting  on  a  rock." 


L'  HOMME  PROPOSE.  205 

"  I  know,  Mr.  Digby,"  said  Eotha,  in  a  subdued 
way.  "  I  wish  I  was  on  such  a  rock,  too ;  but  that 
don't  change  anything." 

"  Do  you  think  you  really  wish  to  be  a  Christian, 
Botha?" 

"Because  mother  was, — and  because  you  are," 
she  said  gravely;  "but  then,  for  myself,  I  do  not 
want  it." 

"  What  is  likely  to  be  the  end  ?  " 

"  That  don't  change  anything,  either,"  said  Eo- 
tha, not  too  lucidly. 

"Most  true!"  said  Mr.  Digby.  "Well,  Kotha, 
I  will  tell  you  what  I  think.  I  think  you  are 
your  mother's  child,  arid  that  you  will  not  be  left 
to  your  own  wilful  ness.  I  am  afraid,  though,  that 
you  may  have  to  go  through  a  bitter  experience 
before  the  wilfulness  is  broken;  and  I  want  to 
give  you  one  or  two  things  to  remember  when  it 
comes." 

"  But  why  should  it  come  ?  "  said  Eotha. 

"  Because  I  am  afraid  nothing  else  will  bring  you 
to  seek  the  one  Friend  that  cannot  be  lost;  and  I 
think  you  are  bound  to  find  Him." 

"  But  where  will  you  be,  Mr.  Digby  ?  "  said  Eo- 
tha, now  plainly  much  disturbed. 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  do  not  know  anything 
about  it." 

"  But  I  could  not  be  so  forlorn,  if  I  had  you." 

"Then  perhaps  you  will  not  have  me." 

At  this,  however,  there  came  such  flashes  of 
changing  feeling,  of  which  every  change  was  a 


206  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

variety  of  pain,  in  the  girl's  face,  that  Mr.  Digby's 
heart  was  melted.  He  stretched  out  his  hand  and 
took  hers,  which  lay  limp  and  unresponsive  in  his 
grasp,  while  distressed  and  startled  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  him. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  it,"  he  said  kindly.  "  I 
have  no  foresight  of  any  such  time.  I  shall  never 
do  anything  to  bring  it  about,  Rotha.  Only,  if  it 
came  by  no  doing  of  mine,  I  want  you  to  have  the 
knowledge  of  one  or  two  things  which  might  be  a 
help  to  you.  Do  you  understand  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  still  silently,  trying  to  read 
his  face,  as  if  her  fate  were  there.  He  met  the 
look  as  steadily.  On  one  side,  a  keen,  searching, 
suspicious,  fearful  inquiry;  on  the  other  a  calm, 
frank,  steadfastness;  till  his  face  broke  into  a 
smile. 

"Satisfied?"  he  asked. 

"  Then  why  do  you  speak  so,  Mr.  Digby  ?  "  she 
said  with  a  quiver  in  her  lip. 

"  My  child,  this  world  is  proverbially  an  uncer- 
tain and  changing  thing." 

"  I  know  it ;  but  why  should  you  make  it  more 
uncertain  by  talking  in  that  way  ?  " 

"  I  do  not.  I  forestall  nothing.  I  merely  would 
like  to  have  you  provided  with  one  or  two  bits  of 
knowledge;  a  sort  of  note  of  the  way,  if  you 
should  need  it.  You  are  not  superstitious,  are 

you?" 

"  I  do  not  know  what  is  superstitious,"  said  Ro- 
tha, her  eyes  still  fixed  upon  his  face  with  an  in- 


L'  HOMME  PROPOSE.  207 

tentness  which  moved  him,  while  yet  at  the  same 
time,  he  saw,  she  was  swallowing  down  a  great 
deal  of  disturbance. 

"Well,"  he  said,  speaking  very  easily,  "it  is 
superstition,  when  people  think  that  anything  be- 
iieath  the  Creator  has  power  to  govern  the  world 
he  has  made — or  to  govern  any  part  of  it." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  the  government  of  the 
world,"  said  Kotha, 

"  Only  of  a  very  small  part  of  it, — the  affairs  of 
your  little  life.  You  were  afraid  that  being  pre- 
pared for  trouble  might  bring  the  trouble,  in  some 
mysterious  way  ?  " 

The  girl  was  silent,  and  her  eyes  fell  to  the  hand 
which  held  hers.  What  would  she  do,  if  ever  that 
hand  ceased  to  be  her  protection  ?  People  of  Bo- 
tha's temperament  receive  impressions  easily,  and 
to  her  fancy  that  hand  was  an  epitome  of  the  whole 
character  to  which  it  belonged.  Delicately  mem- 
bered,  and  yet  nervously  and  muscularly  strong; 
kept  in  a  perfection  of  care,  and  graceful  as  it  was 
firm  in  movement;  yet  ready,  she  knew,  to  plunge 
itself  into  anything  where  human  want  or  human 
trouble  called  for  its  help.  Rotha  loved  the  touch 
of  it,  obeyed  every  sign  of  it,  and  admired  every 
action  of  it;  and  now  as  she  looked,  two  big,  hot 
tears  fell  down  over  her  cheeks.  The  hand  closed 
a  little  more  firmly  upon  her  fingers. 

"  Rotha — you  believe  me  ?  "  he  said. 

"What,  Mr.  Digby?" 

"You  believe  me  when  I  tell  you,  that  I  am  never 


208  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

going  to  leave  you  or  lose  you  by  any  will  or  doing 
of  mine — " 

"By  whose  then?"  said  Botha  quickly. 

"  By  nobody's  else,  either,  I  promise  you — unless 
by  your  own." 

"  By  mine !  "  said  Rotha,  and  a  faint  smile  broke 
upon  her  troubled  face. 

"  Well,  you  believe  me  ?  And  now,  my  child, 
that  is  all  you  and  I  can  do.  And  nevertheless,  a 
time  might  come  when  you  might  want  help  and 
comfort, — that  is  all  I  am  saying;  and  I  want  to 
give  you  one  or  two  things  to  remember  in  case 
such  a  time  ever  does  come,  and  I  am  not  at  hand 
to  ask.  Get  your  Bible,  and  a  pencil." 

He  let  her  hand  loose,  and  Rotha  obeyed  imme- 
diately. 

"  Find  the  fourth  chapter  of  John,  and  read  to 
the  fourteenth  verse." 

Rotha  did  so. 

"  What  do  you  think  the  Lord  meant  ?  " 

Rotha  studied,  and  would  have  said  she  "  did  not 
know,"  only  she  had  found  by  experience  that  Mr. 
Digby  never  would  take  that  answer  from  her  in 
a  case  like  the  present. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said,  speaking  slowly,  and  vainly 
endeavouring  to  find  words  that  quite  suited  her, — 
"  he  meant — something  like —  He  meant,  that  he 
could  give  her  something  good,  that  would  last." 

Mr.  Digby  smiled. 

"That  would  last  always,  and  never  fail,  nor 
change,  nor  wear  out  its  goodness." 


L'  HOMME  PROPOSE.  209 

"But,  Mr.  Digby,  I  should  not  want  to  stop 
being  thirsty,  because  I  should  lose  the  pleasure 
of  drinking." 

Mr.  Digby  smiled  again.  "Did  you  think  that 
was  what  the  Lord  promised  ?  What  would  be  the 
use  of  that  '  well  of  water,  springing  up  into  ever- 
lasting life'?  No,  he  meant  only,  that  thirst  and 
thirst  and  thirst  as  you  will,  the  supply  should 
always  be  at  hand  and  be  sufficient." 

Rotha  gave  one  of  her  quick  glances  of  compre- 
hension, which  it  was  always  pleasant  to  meet. 

"Then  go  on,  and  tell  me  what  is  this  living 
water  which  the  Lord  will  give  ?  " 

"  I  suppose — do  you  mean — religion  ?  "  she  said, 
after  another  pause  of  consideration. 

"  Religion  is  a  rather  vague  term — people  under- 
stand very  different  things  under  it.  But  if  by 
'religion'  you  mean  the  knowledge,  the  loving 
knowledge,  of  God, — you  are  right.  Living  water, 
in  the  Bible,  constantly  typifies  the  work  of  the 
Holy  Spirit  in  the  heart;  and  what  He  does,  where 
he  is  received,  is,  to  shew  us  Christ." 

"  Then  how  can  people  be  thirsty,  after  they  have 
got  the  knowledge  ?  "  inquired  Rotha. 

But  Mr.  Digby's  smile  was  very  sweet  this  time, 
and  awed  her. 

''  After  you  have  once  come  to  know  and  love 
a  friend,"  said  he,  turning  his  eyes  upon  Rotha,  "  are 
you  satisfied,  and  want  to  see  and  hear  no  more 
of  him  ?  " 

"  Is  religion  like  that  ?  "  said  Rotha. 


210  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Just  like  that.  What  the  Lord  Jesus  offers  to 
give  us  is  himself.  Now  suppose  the  time  come 
when  you  greatly  desire  to  receive  this  gift,  what 
are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"I  don't  know.     Pray?" 

"  Certainly.  But  how  ?  There  are  different  ways 
of  praying;  and  there  is  just  one  way  which  the 
Lord  promises  shall  never  miss  what  it  asks  for." 

"  I  don't  know  but  one  way,"  said  Rotha. 

"Are  you  sure  you  know  one?  It  takes  more 
than  words  to  make  a  prayer.  But  turn  to  the 
second  chapter  of  Proverbs.  Read  the  third  and 
fourth  and  fifth  verses." 

Rotha  read,  and  made  no  comment. 

"  You  see  ?     You  understand  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Digby." 

" '  If  thou  searchest  for  her  as  for  hid  treasures, 
then  shalt  thou  understand,  and  find.' — You  know 
how  people  search  for  hid  treasures  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"They  leave  no  stone  unturned,  they  work  by 
night  and  by  day,  they  think  of  nothing  else,  un- 
til their  object  is  gained.  Mark  those  two  places, 
Rotha,  and  mark  them  in  the  fly  leaf  of  your 
Bible,  1.  and  2." 

"Suppose,"  he  went  on  when  she  had  done 
this,  "suppose  you  have  sought  in  this  way,  and 
the  light  does  not  come,  and  you  are  in  danger 
of  losing  heart.  Then  turn  to  Hosea,  sixth  chap- 
ter and  third  verse.  There  you  have  an  antidote 
against  discouragement.  You  shall  know,  'if  you 


L'  HOMME  PROPOSE.  211 

follow  on  to  know  the  Lord;'  if  you  do  not  give 
over  seeking  and  grow  tired  of  praying.  'His 
going  forth  is  prepared  as  the  morning.'  Blessed 
words !  " 

"  I  do  not  know  what  they  mean,"  said  Rotha. 

"Do  you  know  how  the  morning  is  prepared?" 

"No,  sir." 

"  Do  you  know  why  the  sun  rises  when  morning 
comes?" 

"  It  wouldn't  be  morning,  if  he  didn't  rise, 
would  it  ?  " 

"No.  Well,  when  the  time  comes,"  said  Mr. 
Digby  laughing.  "Do  you  know  why  the  sun 
rises?  and  why  does  he  not  rise  where  he  went 
down?" 

"  No — "  said  Rotha,  her  eyes  kindling  with  in- 
telligent curiosity. 

Whereupon  Mr.  Digby  turned  himself  out  of  his 
hammock,  and  coming  to  the  table  gave  Rotha  her 
first  lesson  in  astronomy;  a  lesson  thoroughly  given, 
and  received  by  her  with  an  eagerness  and  a  de- 
light which  shewed  that  knowledge  to  her  was  like 
what  the  magnet  is  to  the  iron.  She  forgot  all 
about  the  religious  bearing  of  the  new  subject  till 
the  subject  itself  was  for  that  time  done  with.  Then 
Mr.  Digby's  questions  returned  into  the  former 
channel. 

"  You  see  now,  Rotha,  how  the  morning  is  '  pre- 
pared,' do  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Digby,"  she  answered  joyously. 

"  And  sure  to  come.     If  the  earth  goes  on  turn- 


212  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

ing  round,  it  cannot  help  coming.  Even  so:  the 
Lord's  coming  is  prepared  and  sure,  for  any  one 
who  persistently  seeks  him.  Keep  on  towards  the 
east  and  you  will  certainly  see  the  sun  rise." 

"  Yes,"  said  Rotha,  "  I  see.     It  is  beautiful." 

"Mark  that  No.  3  in  the  fly  leaf!  But  Rotha, 
remember,  anybody  truly  in  earnest  and  search- 
ing 'as  for  hid  treasure,'  will  be  willing  to  give 
up  whatever  would  render  the  search  useless." 

"  Yes,  of  course.  But  what  would  ?  "  said  Ro- 
tha, though  she  was  thinking  more  of  the  impro- 
vised planetarium  with  which  her  imagination  had 
just  been  delighted. 

"  Turn  once  more  to  the  fourteenth  of  John  and 
read  the  21st  verse."  But  Mr.  Digby  himself  gave 
the  words. 

"  '  He  that  hath  my  commandments  and  keepeth 
them,  he  it  is  that  loveth  me;  and  he  that  loveth 
me  shall  be  loved  of  my  Father;  and  I  will  love 
him,  and  will  manifest  myself  to  him.' " 

"  That  is  somebody  who  has  found  the  treasure, 
I  think,  Mr.  Digby;  it  is  'he  that  loveth  me.1" 

"  Quite  true ;  nevertheless,  Rotha,  it  remains  a 
fact  that  nobody  who  is  not  willing  to  do  the 
Lord's  will,  can  come  to  the  knowledge  of  him." 

"  Mr.  Digby,  why  are  wrong  things  so  easy,  and 
right  things  so  hard?" 

"They  are  not." 

"  I  thought  they  were,"  said  Rotha  in  surprise. 
"  Am  I  worse  than  other  people  ?  " 

"It  all  depends  upon  where  you  stand,  Rotha. 


L'  HOMME  PROPOSE.  213 

Would  you  find  it  easy  to  do  something  that  would 
cause  me  great  pain  ?  " 

"  No,  Mr.  Digby, — impossible." 

" I  believe  it,"  he  said.  "Then  just  put  the  case 
that  you  loved  Christ  much  better  than  you  do 
me;  which  would  be  the  hard  and  the  easy  things 
then?" 

Rotha  was  silent.  But  the  whole  conversation 
had  rather  given  new  food  for  the  meditations 
it  had  interrupted  and  which  had  occasioned  it. 
Where  was  all  this  to  end  ? — the  young  man  asked 
himself.  And  when  should  it  end,  in  so  far  as 
the  immediate  state  of  things  was  concerned  ?  As 
soon  as  possible !  his  judgment  said.  Rotha  was 
already  clinging  to  him  with  a  devotion  that  would 
make  the  parting  a  hard  business,  even  now ;  every 
week  would  make  it  harder.  Besides,  he  had  other 
work  to  do,  and  could  not  permanently  play  tutor. 
As  soon  as  Mrs.  Busby  came  home  he  would  go 
to  her  and  broach  the  matter.  That  would  be, 
for  the  present,  the  best  plan  he  could  hit  upon. 
A  week  or  two  more — 

Which  calculations,  like  so  many  others  of  hu- 
man framing,  came  to  nothing.  A  day  or  two 
later,  driving  in  the  Park  one  evening,  a  pair  of 
unruly  horses  coming  at  a  run  round  a  corner 
dashed  into  the  little  phaeton  which  held  Mr. 
Digby  and  Rotha,  and  threw  them  both  out.  The 
phaeton  was  broken;  Rotha  was  unhurt;  Mr.  Digby 
could  not  stand  up.  He  believed  it  was  a  sprain, 
he  said ;  no  more ;  but  one  foot  was  unmanageable. 


214  'THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

A  carriage  was  procured,  he  was  assisted  into  it, 
Rotha  took  her  place  beside  him,  and  the  coach- 
man was  ordered  to  drive  slowly. 

A  silent  pair  they  were  for  some  distance ;  and 
both  faces  very  pale.  Rotha  was  the  first  one  to 
speak. 

"  Mr.  Digby — does  it  hurt  much  ?  " 

"  Rather,  just  now,"  he  said  forcing  a  smile. 
"Rotha,  are  you  all  right?" 

"  O  yes.     What  can  I  do,  Mr.  Digby  ?  " 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  done,  till  we  get  home." 

For  which  now  Rotha  waited  in  an  impatience 
which  seemed  to  measure  every  yard  of  the  way. 
Arrived  at  last,  Mr.  Digby  was  assisted  out  of  the 
phaeton,  and  with  much  difficulty  into  the  house. 
Here  he  himself  examined  the  hurt,  and  decided 
that  it  was  only  a  sprain ;  no  doctor  need  be  sent 
tor. 

"Is  a  sprain  bad?"  asked  Rotha,  when  the  as- 
sistants had  withdrawn. 

"Worse  than  a  broken  bone,  sometimes." 

Mr.  Digby  had  laid  himself  down  upon  the  cush- 
ions of  the  lounge;  sweat  stood  on  his  brow,  and 
the  colour  varied  in  his  face.  He  was  in  great 
pain. 

"  Where  is  Mrs.  Cord  ?  " 

"  She's  out.  She's  gone  to  New  York.  I  know 
she  meant  to  go.  What  shall  I  do  for  you,  Mr. 
Digby?" 

"You  cannot — " 

"  0  yes,  I  can ;  I  can  as  well  as  anybody.     Only 


L'  HOMME  PROPOSE.  215 

tell  me  what.  Please,  Mr.  Digby ! — "  Kotha's  en- 
treaty was  made  with  most  intense  expression. 

"Salt  and  water  is  the  thing, — but  the  boot 
must  come  off.  You  cannot  get  it  off,  nor  any- 
body, except  with  a  knife.  Rotha,  give  me  the 
clasp  knife  that  lies  on  my  table  over  yonder." 

Mr.  Digby  proceeded  to  open  the  largest  blade 
and  to  make  a  slit  in  the  leg  of  his  boot.  The 
slit  was  enlarged,  with  difficulty  and  evident  suf- 
fering, till  the  whole  top  of  the  boot  was  open; 
but  the  ankle  and  foot,  the  hardest  part  of  the 
task,  were  still  to  do,  and  the  swollen  foot  had 
made  the  leather  very  tight. 

"  I  cannot  manage  it,"  said  Mr.  Digby  throwing 
down  the  knife.  "  I  cannot  get  at  it.  You'll  have 
to  send  for  a  surgeon,  after  all,  Rotha,  to  carve 
this  leather." 

"Mr.  Digby,  may  I  try?" 

"You  cannot  do  it,  child."  But  the  answer  was 
given  in  the  exhaustion  of  pain,  and  the  young 
man  lay  back  with  closed  eyes.  Rotha  did  not 
hold  herself  forbidden.  She  took  the  knife,  and 
carefully,  tenderly,  and  very  skilfully,  she  man- 
aged to  free  the  suffering  foot.  It  took  time,  but 
not  more,  nor  so  much,  as  would  have  been  needed 
to  send  for  a  doctor. 

"  Thank  you ! — that  is  great  relief.  Now  the 
salt  and  water,  Rotha." 

With  a  beating  heart,  beating  with  joy,  Rotha 
flew  to  get  what  was  wanted;  flew  only  outside 
the  door  though,  for  in  the  room  her  motions  had 


216  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

no  precipitation  whatever.  She  came  staidly  and 
steadily,  and  noiselessly.  It  was  necessary  to  cut 
open  also  the  stocking,  to  get  that  off,  but  this 
was  an  easier  matter;  and  then  Rotha's  fingers 
applied  the  cold  salt  and  water,  bathing  softly  and 
patiently,  with  fingers  that  almost  trembled,  they 
were  so  glad  to  be  employed.  For  a  long  time 
this  went  on. 

"  Rotha— " 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Digby,"  said  the  girl  eagerly. 

"  What  o'clock  is  it  ?  " 

"Seven,  just." 

"You  have  had  no  tea." 

"Nor  you,  either.  Will  you  have  some  now. 
Mr.  Digby?" 

"You  will.  The  foot  is  a  great  deal  easier 
now,  Rotha.  Lay  a  wet  cloth  over  the  ankle  and 
let  it  alone  for  a  while;  and  have  some  tea,  dear." 

Rotha  obeyed,  moving  with  the  utmost  delicacy 
of  soft  and  quiet  movements.  She  made  the  foot 
comfortable;  rang  the  bell,  and  desired  the  kettle 
to  be  brought;  and  noiselessly  arranged  the  ta- 
ble when  the  servant  had  set  the  tea  things  upon 
it  She  made  the  tea  then;  and  had  just  cut  a 
slice  of  bread  and  put  it  upon  the  toasting  .fork, 
when  the  door  opened  and  in  came  Mrs.  Cord,  her 
arms  full  of  cloths  and  vials  and  a  basin  of  water. 
Rotha  dropped  the  toasting  fork  and  sprang  tow- 
ards her. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  she  said.  "  What  are 
you  going  to  do  ?  " 


L'  HOMME  PROPOSE.  217 

Her  accent  and  action  were  so  striking,  that  the 
woman  paused,  startled. 

"  There's  a  sprained  ankle  here — I'm  coming  to 
see  it." 

"  No,  you  are  not,"  said  Rotha  with  great  decis- 
ion. "  I  have  done  all  that  is  necessary,  and  I  am 
going  to  do  all  that  is  necessary.  1  can  do  it  as 
well  as  anybody;  and  I  do  not  want  you.  You 
may  carry  all  those  things  away,  Mrs.  Cord.  Mr. 
Digby  is  asleep;  he  is  better." 

"You  don't  want  me,  maybe,  Rotha,  but  Mr. 
Digby  does.  I've  got  what  he  wants  here,  and  ] 
knows  my  business.  My  business  is  to  take  care 
of  him."  She  would  have  passed  on. 

"Stand  back!  "  said  Rotha,  barring  her  way.  "I 
tell  you,  he  don't  want  you,  and  you  are  not  com- 
ing. Stand  back!  Take  your  things  away.  1 
will  manage  all  that  is  done  here  myself.  You 
may  go !  " — The  tone  and  action  were  utterly  and 
superbly  imperious. 

The  woman  paused  again,  yielding  before  the 
slight  girl,  as  matter  always  does  yield  to  mind. 

"  What  new  sort  o'  behaviour  is  this?"  she  said 
however  in  high  offence.  "  You  to  tell  me  what 
I'm  to  do  and  not  do  !  You're  takiii'  a  good  deal 
upon  you,  my  young  lady  !" 

"I  take.it,"  said  Rotha,  supremely.  "Go!  and 
send  the  girl  here,  if  you  please.  I  heard  her  go 
up  stairs  just  now.  I  want  her  to  make  a  piece  of 
toast." 

Mrs.  Cord  greatly  displeased,  withdrew,  after  a 


218  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

glance  at  the  closed  eyelids  on  the  sofa.  The  eye- 
lids however  were  not  so  fast  closed  as  they  might 
be;  Rotha's  first  words,  spoken  somewhat  more  em- 
phatically than  usual,  had  roused  Mr.  Digby  out  of 
his  light  slumber,  and  he  had  seen  and  heard  all 
that  passed.  He  had  seen  it  with  not  a  little 
amusement;  at  the  same  time  it  had  given  him  new 
matter  for  thought.  This  was  Rotha  in  a  new 
character.  He  had  known  indeed  before,  in  a 
measure,  the  intense  nature  of  the  girl;  yet  in 
his  presence  her  manner  was  always  subdued, 
except  in  the  passion  of  grief  that  burst  all 
bounds.  But  this  was  passion  of  another  sort,  and 
in  that  concentration  of  force  which  draws  out  a 
kind  of  spiritual  electricity  from  its  possessor.  He 
saw  how  it  had  magnetized  Mrs.  Cord,  and  ren- 
dered her  bulkiness  passive.  He  had  been  intensely 
amused  to  see  the  large  woman  standing  face  to 
face  with  the  slim  girl,  checked  and  indeed  awed 
by  the  subtle  lightning  fire  which  darted  from  Ro- 
tha's eyes  and  seemed  to  play  about  her  whole  per- 
son. Mrs.  Cord  was  fairly  cowed,  and  gave  way. 
And  Rotha's  bearing;  instead  of  a  poor,  portion- 
less little  girl,  she  might  have  been  a  princess  of 
the  house  royal,  if  she  were  judged  of  by  her  mien 
and  manner.  There  was  nothing  assumed  or  af- 
fected about  it;  the  demonstration  was  pure  na- 
ture, Mr.  Digby  saw  well  enough;  but  what  sort 
of  a  creature  was  this,  to  whom  such  a  demonstra- 
tion could  be  natural?  There  was  force  enough 
there,  he  saw,  to  bring  the  whole  machinery  into 


L'  HOMME  PROPOSE.  219 

disorder  and  ruin,  if  the  force  were  not  well  gov- 
erned and  well  guided,  and  the  machinery  wisely 
managed.  Who  was  to  do  this?  Mrs.  Busby? 
Mr.  Digby  was  not  sure  yet  what  manner  of  per- 
son Mrs.  Busby  was;  and  he  felt  more  than 
ever  anxious  to  find  out.  And  now  a  sprained 
ankle! — 

Meanwhile,  Kotha  having  driven  her  adversary 
from  the  field,  was  making  peaceful  arrangements. 
She  had  sent  the  toast  to  be  made;  seeing  that  Mr. 
Digby's  eyes  were  open,  she  carefully  renewed  the 
salt  water  application  to  his  ankle;  poured  out  a  cup 
of  tea,  and  brought  it  with  the  plate  of  toast  to 
his  side;  where  she  sat  down,  the  cup  in  one  hand, 
the  plate  in  the  other. 

"What  now,  Rotha?"  said  he. 

"Your  tea,  Mr.  Digby.     I  hope  it  is  good." 

She  looked  and  spoke  as  gentle  as  a  dove,  albeit 
full  of  energetic  alertness. 

"And  do  you  propose  to  enact  dumb  waiter?  " 

"If  you  want  me  to  be  dumb,"  she  said. 

He  laughed.  "  0  Rotha,  Rotha !  this  is  a  bad 
piece  of  work ! "  he  said ;  but  he  did  not  explain 
what  he  meant. — "  That  won't  do.  Call  Marianne 
and  let  her  shove  the  table  up  to  the  sofa  here — 
one  corner  of  it." 

"  I  like  to  hold  the  things,  Mr.  Digby,  if  you  will 
let  me." 

"  I  don't  like  it.  Call  Marianne,  Rotha,  and  we 
will  take  our  tea  together.  I  am  not  a  South 
Sea  Islander." 


220  .THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Suppose  you  were, — what  then  ?  "  asked  Kotha 
as  she  rang  the  bell. 

"  Then  I  suppose  I  should  think  it  proper  for  the 
ladies  of  the  family  to  take  tea  after  I  had  done." 

The  tea  time  was  an  occasion  of  unmitigated  de- 
light to  Rotha,  because  she  could  wait  upon  her 
protector.  He  was  suffering1  less  now,  and  except 
that  he  was  a  prisoner  seemed  just  as  usual.  After 
tea,  however,  he  lay  still,  with  closed  eyes  again ; 
and  Rotha  had  nothing  to  do  but  take  care  of  his 
ankle  and  look  at  him.  She  thought  it  had  never 
struck  her  before,  what  a  beautiful  person  he  was. 

I  use  the  word  advisedly,  and  that  I  may  jus- 
tify it  I  will  try,  what  I  believe  I  have  not  done 
before,  to  describe  Mr.  Digby.  He  was  not  at  all 
one  of  a  class,  or  like  what  one  sees  every  now  and 
then;  in  fact  the  combination  of  points  in  his  ap- 
pearance was  very  unusual.  His  features  were 
delicately  regular  and  the  colour  of  skin  fair ;  but 
all  thought  of  weakness  or  womanishness  was  shut 
out  by  the  very  firm  lines  of  the  lips  and  chin  and 
the  gravity  of  the  brow.  His  hair  was  light  and 
curly,  and  a  fair  moustache  graced  the  upper  lip ; 
not  overhanging  it,  but  trained  into  long  soft 
points  right  and  left.  He  wore  no  English  whis- 
kers nor  beard.  Again,  his  hands  were  small  and 
delicate,  and  the  whole  person  of  rather  slight 
build,  as  far  as  outline  and  contour  were  con 
cerned ;  but  the  joints  were  well  knit  and  supple, 
and  all  the  muscles  and  sinews  as  if  made  of  steel. 
Rather  slow  and  easy,  generally,  in  movement,  he 


L'  HOMME  PROPOSE.  221 

could  shew  the  spring  and  power  of  a  cat,  when  it 
was  necessary;  nature  and  training  having  done 
their  best.  He  was  habitually  a  grave  person ;  the 
gravity  was  sweet,  but  very  decided,  and  even  when 
crossed  by  a  smile  it  was  not  lost.  So  at  least  Ro- 
tha  had  always  seen  him.  There  were  several 
reasons  for  this ;  one  being  the  yet  unhealed  wound 
left  by  the  death  of  his  mother,  to  whom  he  had 
been  devotedly  attached,  and  another  the  sudden 
death  a  year  or  more  ago  of  the  lady  he  was  to 
have  married.  The  world  knew  nothing  of  these 
things,  and  set  Mr.  Digby  down  as  a  ridiculously 
sober  man,  for  a  man  in  his  circumstances.  They 
gave  him  also  largely  the  reputation  of  haughti- 
ness; while  no  one  had  more  gentle  and  brotherly 
sympathy  with  every  condition  of  humankind,  or 
shewed  it  more  gracioTisly.  He  got  the  reputation 
partly,  perhaps,  by  his  real  separateness  from  the 
mass  of  men,  and  his  real  carelessness  about  the 
things  in  which  they  take  concern;  more,  how- 
ever, it  came  from  the  feeling  of  inferiority  in  his 
presence,  which  most  people  find  it  hard  to  forgive 
a  man.  He  was  a  welcome  guest  wherever  he  ap- 
peared; but  very  few  were  acquainted  with  his 
real  tastes  and  powers  and  inner  nature,  even  as 
Eotha  knew  them. 

She  knew  something  of  them.  She  did  not  mis- 
judge him;  but  on  the  contrary  dwelt  on  every- 
thing that  belonged  to  him  with  a  kind  of  wor- 
shipping admiration.  So  she  sat  and  looked  at  him 
this  evening,  and  thought  she  had  never  known 


222  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

before  how  beautiful  he  was;  and  the  evening  was 
not  slow  to  her,  nor  long,  though  it  was  utterly 
silent. 

By  and  by  came  in  Mrs.  Cord,  again  with  her 
hands  full.  { 

"  I  beg  your  pardon — can  I  do  anything  for 
you,  sir?" 

"No,  thank  you.  I  have  had  all  the  care  I 
needed." 

Rotha's  heart  had  beat  fearfully,  and  now  it 
swelled  in  triumph. 

"  I  have  some  liniment  here,  sir,  that  is  an  ex- 
cellent thing  for  a  sprain — if  a  sprain  it  is ;  I  wasn't 
allowed  to  examine." 

"Nothing  so  good  as  salt  and  water.  Mrs.  Cord, 
let  them  make  up  a  bed  in  the  next  room  for  me. 
I  had  better  not  go  up  stairs." 

So  the  nurse  was  dismissed,  and  Rotha  confirmed 
in  her  office,  to  her  great  joy. 


CHAPTER   XL 

MRS.   BUSBY. 

THE  weeks  that  now  followed  were  a  time  of 
happiness  to  Rotha,  as  perfect  as  in  her  pres- 
ent circumstances  it  was  possible  for  her  to  know. 
She  was  allowed  to  minister  to  Mr.  Digby,  she  was 
constantly  with  him,  and  intercourse  and  lessons 
were  tasted  with  redoubled  zest.  For  she  was 
kept  very  busy  at  her  old  studies,  and  new  ones 
were  added;  she  read  aloud  a  good  deal;  Mr. 
Digby  never  shunned  talk  when  she  wanted  in- 
formation or  help  in  any  puzzle;  and  the  meal 
times,  when  ministry  was  varied  and  the  conversa- 
tion ran  upon  lighter  topics,  were  hours  of  unal- 
loyed enjoyment.  I  think  these  weeks  were  not 
disagreeable  ones  to  the  other  party  concerned; 
however,  he  was  constantly  reminded  of  the  need 
of  making  new  arrangements ;  and  as  soon  as  his 
ankle  would  permit  his  getting  in  and  out  of  a 
carriage,  he  was  ready  to  go  to  Mrs.  Busby's.  But 
when  at  last  he  was  on  the  way,  he  thought  to 
himself  that  he  had  another  hard  job  on  his  hands. 
How  would  Rotha  bear  uprooting  again,  and 

transplanting  to  entirely  different  soil?  she  who 
(223) 


224  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

took  such  terribly  fast  hold  of  any  ground  that 
suited  her.  Would  Mrs.  Busby's  family  be  such 
ground  ?  If  it  would  not,  if  he  saw  cause  to  think 
it  would  not,  Mr.  Digby  resolved  she  should  not 
be  put  there.  But  how  was  he  to  find  out  ?  He 
came  into  Mrs.  Busby's  drawing  room  with  the  full 
measure  of  his  usual  gravity. 

It  was  almost  the  end  of  October  now,  and  the 
family  had  been  long  enough  returned  from  the 
country  for  the  mistress  of  it  to  have  her  house  put 
in  perfect  winter  order.  Carpets  were  down,  cur- 
tains were  up;  mirrors  and  lamps  were  unswathed 
from  their  brown  linen  coverings;  everything  that 
was  metal  shone  with  the  polish  put  upon  it,  and 
everything  that  was  upholstery  shewed  soft  and 
rich  colours  and  draperies.  It  was  all  harmonious, 
it  was  all  very  handsome;  the  fault  was  the  fault 
of  so  many  rooms,  a  failure  to  shew  cause  why  it 
should  be  at  all.  Nothing  was  done  there,  nothing 
could  be  done;  there  was  plush  and  satin  and  bro- 
cade and  gilding  and  lacquered  wood ;  but  no  life. 
Even  the  fire,  for  there  was  a  fire,  was  a  solid  mass 
of  firestones ;  a  glowing  grateful  of  hard  coal ;  if 
there  was  life  in  that,  it  was  the  life  of  mere 
existence. 

Plenty  of  money !     What  else  ? 

One  of  the  great  polished  doors  opened  a  little? 
softly,  and  the  mistress  of  the  house  came  in.  She 
was  rather  a  contrast  to  it  all.  Perhaps  she  had 
not  yet  made  her  toilette  for  the  afternoon;  she 
was  in  a  very  plain  dress,  and  came  in  drawing  a 


MRS.  BUSBY.  225 

shawl  around  her.  Not  a  handsome  shawl  either ; 
the  lady's  whole  appearance  was  most  absolutely 
without  pretension,  and  so  was  her  manner.  But 
the  manner  was  not  artless;  it  gave  you  the  im- 
pression that  she  always  knew  what  she  was  say- 
ing and  had  a  reason  for  saying  it.  And  the  face, 
which  had  once  been  handsome,  and  might  still 
have  laid  claim  to  some  distinction,  seemed  like- 
wise to  lay  claim  to  nothing,  beyond  the  possession 
of  sense  and  discernment  and  knowledge  of  the 
world. 

"  Mr.  South wode !  "  she  said  as  she  closed  the 
door.  "You  are  quite  a  stranger." 

She  was  far  too  acute  to  tell  Mr.  Digby  how 
welcome  a  visiter  he  was.  She  let  the  fact  suf- 
ficiently appear  in  her  smile  and  the  tones  of  her 
greeting. 

"I  think,  you  have  been  a  stranger  here  too, 
Mrs.  Busby.  Were  you  not  late  in  returning  to 
town  ?  " 

"Yes —  September  was  so  warm  !  But  I  think 
eight  months  of  the  year  is  sufficient  to  spend  in 
the  city.  Soul  and  body  want  the  cultivation  of 
nature  for  the  other  four;  don't  you  think  so?  The 
ocean  and  the  mountains  are  better  than  books. 
There  is  enlargement  of  the  faculties  to  be  sought, 
as  well  as  stores  for  the  memory." 

"  And  what  mountains,  and  what  sea,  have  you 
been  looking  upon  this  summer?" 

"We  have  seen  no  mountains  this  year;  we  kept 
to  the  sea  beach.  Except  for  a  short  interval. 


226  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

And  you,  Mr.  Southwode  ?  What  have  you  done 
with  yourself?  " 

"My  last  achievement  was  to  let  somebody  run 
into  me,  in  the  Park,  and  sprain  my  ankle  in  con- 
sequence." 

There  followed  of  course  inquiries  and  a  full  ac- 
count of  the  affair.  Mr.  Digby  could  not  be  let  off 
with  less;  and  then  advice  and  recipes,  in  the  giv- 
ing of  which  Mrs.  Busby  was  quite  motherly. 

"And  have  you  resolved  at  last  to  make  your 
home  in  America?"  she  asked  after  this. 

"  I  make  my  home  wherever  I  am,"  the  young- 
man  replied,  with  his  slight  grave  smile. 

"But  surely  you  do  not  think  it  well  for  any  or- 
dinary mortal  to  imitate  the  Wandering  Jew,  and 
have  a  settled  home  nowhere  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Busby, 
shewing  her  white  teeth,  of  which  she  had  a  good 
many  and  in  good  order. 

"  It  may  be  best  for  some  people,"  the  young 
man  said  lightly.  "But  I  came  to  speak  to  you 
about  a  matter  of  business.  Mrs.  Busby,  pardon 
me  for  asking,  had  you  once  a  sister  ?  " 

There  was  a  change  in  the  lady's  face,  marked 
enough,  yet  not  so  as  to  strike  any  but  a  nice  ob- 
server. The  bland  smile  faded  from  her  lips,  the 
lines  about  her  mouth  took  a  harder  set,  the  eyes 
were  more  watchfully  on  the  alert. 

"Yes,"  she  said  quietly,  not  shewing  her  surprise. 
'I  have  a  sister." 

"  Have  you  heard  from  her  lately  ? " 

"No.     Not  lately."    The  eyes  were  keenly  atten- 


MRS.  BUSBY.  227 

tive  now,  the  words  a  little  dry.  She  waited  for 
what  was  to  come  next.  As  Mr.  Digby  paused, 
she  added,  "  Do  you  know  her  ?  " 

"  I  have  known  her." 

"  In  Medwayville  ?  I  did  not  know  you  had 
ever  travelled  in  the  western  part  of  the  state." 

"  I  have  never  been  there.  I  knew  Mrs.  Carpen- 
ter here,  in  New  York." 

"  In  New  York ! "  repeated  Mrs.  Busby.  "  She  did 
not  tell  me —  When  did  you  know  her  in  New 
York?  I  was  not  aware  she  had  ever  been  here." 

"  She  was  here  the  early  part  of  this  summer. 
But  she  was  very  ill,  and  failing  constantly;  and 
in  July — did  you  know  nothing  of  it? — she  left  us 
all,  Mrs.  Busby." 

"My  sister?  Did  she  die  here?  Do  you  mean 
that?" 

Mr.  Digby  bowed  his  head.  The  lady  folded  her 
arms,  and  removed  her  eyes  from  his  face.  Her 
own  face  was  a  shade  paler,  yet  immoveable.  She 
sat  as  if  lost  in  thought  for  several  minutes ;  in  a 
silence  which  Mr.  Digby  was  determined  this  time 
he  would  not  break. 

"What  brought  my  sister  to  New  York,  Mr. 
Digby?"  Mrs.  Busby  at  length  asked,  stooping 
as  she  spoke  to  pick  up  a  thread  from  the  carpet  at 
her  feet. 

"  1  am  afraid, — the  difficulty  of  getting  along  at 
home,  where  she  was." 

"  Her  husband  was  dead,  I  knew,"  said  the  lady. 
"I  gave  Eunice  permission  to  go  and  occupy  the 


228  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

old  house,  where  we  were  brought  up,  and  which 
by  my  father's  will  came  to  me ;  and  as  I  knew  she 
had  not  done  that,  I  had  no  reason  to  suppose  that 
she  was  not  getting  along  comfortably.  My  sister 
was  one  of  those  people  who  will  not  take  ad- 
vice, Mr.  Digby;  who  will  go  their  own  way,  and 
whom  nobody  can  help.  She  was  here  several 
months,  then?" 

"  More  than  that" 

"  More  ?     How  much  more  ?  " 

u  She  came  here  before  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
knowing  her." 

"  Did  she  tell  you  anything  of  her  story  ?  " 

"Something;  and  so  I  came,  by  a  question  or 
two,  to  find  out  that  you  were  her  sister." 

"  Eunice  separated  herself  from  her  family,"  Mrs. 
Busby  said  shortly;  "and  such  people  always  in 
time  come  to  feel  their  mistake,  and  then  they 
charge  the  fault  upon  their  family." 

"Mrs.  Carpenter  did  not  seem  to  me  inclined 
to  charge  fault  upon  anybody.  I  never  heard  any- 
thing from  her  that  shewed  a  censorious  spirit." 

Mrs.  Busby  opened  her  lips,  and  pressed  them  a 
little  closer  together.  Evidently  she  was  minded 
to  ask  no  more  questions.  Mr.  Digby  went  on. 

"  Mrs.  Carpenter  had  a  daughter — " 

"  I  know  she  had  a  daughter,"  Mrs.  Busby  said 
briskly.  "  Is  she  living  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"Pray,  how  old?" 

"About— I  believe,  about  fifteen." 


MRS.  BUSBY.  229 

"  Where  is  she  ?  " 

"  She  is  here." 
.    "  Here  !     In  whose  care  ?  and  where  is  she  ?  " 

"  She  is  in  my  care.  It  is  about  her  I  wished  to 
speak  to  you." 

"  In  your  care !  But  Mr.  Southwode,  that  is  very 
strange !  How  came  my  sister  to  leave  her  child 
in  your  care  ?  " 

"  She  honoured  me,  I  believe,  with  so  much  trust 
as  to  believe  I  would  be  a  faithful  guardian,"  Mr. 
Digby  said,  with  his  extremely  composed  gravity. 

"  But  was  there  nobody  else  ?  "  said  the  lady,  for 
a  moment  forgetting  herself. 

"  Nobody  else,  whom  Mrs.  Carpenter  thought  as 
competent,  or  as  trustworthy,"  the  young  man  said 
_  \vith  the  gleam  of  a  smile. 

"  Mr.  Southwode,  I  cannot  allow  that  for  a  mo- 
ment," Mrs.  Busby  said  with  energy.  "/  am  the 
proper  person  to  take  charge  of  my  sister's  child,  and 
if  you  please  I  will  assume  the  charge  immediately. 
Where  is  she  ?  She  ought  to  be  under  my  roof." 

"  It  occurred  to  me,  that  if  you  were  so  inclined, 
your  house  would  be  the  safest  place  for  her;  for 
the  present  at  least." 

"  For  the  present  and  for  always,"  said  the  lady 
decidedly.  "Who  else  should  take  care  of  her? 
Where  can  I  find  her,  Mr.  Southwode  ?  " 

"  Nowhere.  I  will  bring  her  to  you,  if  you  will 
allow  me." 

"  Do  you  know  the  girl  ?  do  you  know  much  of 
her,  I  mean  ?  " 


230  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"Something — "  Mr.  Digby  easily  assented. 

"  And  what  is  she,  if  you  can  tell  V  " 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  can  tell,  what  you  will 
find  her.  Do  you  not  think,  Mrs.  Busby,  that  a 
human  character  of  any  richness  shews  different 
sides  of  itself  to  different  persons,  as  varying  af- 
finities call  out  corresponding  developments  ?  " 

"Then  you  call  hers,  a  character  of  some  rich- 
ness ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  implied  as  much." 

"And  will  you  tell  me  what  you  have  found 
her?" 

"Pardon  me;  that  would  be  an  injustice  to  her. 
You  would  naturally  look  to  verify  my  impressions, 
and  perhaps  could  not  do  it.  It  is  unkind  to  praise 
or  blame  anybody  beforehand  to  third  persons. 
You  make  it  impossible  for  the  balance  of  judg- 
ment to  swing  clear." 

"She  ought  to  come  here  at  once.  Will  you 
bring  her  to-morrow?" 

"  I  think  not  to-morrow." 

."  Why  not  ?     When,  then  ?  " 

"This  is  Thursday?  Suppose  we  say,  next 
week  ?  " 

"  Next  week !  That  is  waiting  very  long.  Where 
is  she  ?  I  will  go  to  see  her." 

"  Quite  unnecessary,"  said  Mr.  Digby  rising.  "  As 
soon  as  she  is  ready,  and  I  am  ready,  I  will  bring 
her;  but  not  before  Monday  or  Tuesday." 

"  Mr.  South wode,"  said  Mrs.  Busby,  with  a  mix- 
ture of  suspicion  and  raillery  in  her  look,  which 


MRS.  BUSBY.  231 

was  but  indifferently  compounded,  "if  my  niece 
were  a  few  years  older,  I  should  begin  to  suspect 
that  you  had  reasons  for  being  unwilling  to  put 
her  out  of  your  care." 

The  young  man  met  her  eyes  with  the  grave, 
careless  composure  which  was  habitual  with  him. 

"  I  have  reasons,"  he  said.  "  And  I  am  not  go- 
ing to  put  her  '  out  of  my  care.'  I  am  only  pur- 
posing to  allow  you,  for  the  time  being,  a  share 
in  the  care,  Mrs.  Busby.  A  trust  that  is  given  to 
me,  I  do  not  resign." 

The  lady  shut  her  lips  a  little  tight. 

"  What  school  is  your  daughter  attending  ?  "  Mr. 
Southwode  went  on. 

"  I  am  not  sure  where  I  shall  send  her  this  year. 
She  has  been  going —  But  I  am  thinking  of  mak- 
ing a  change.  I  do  not  know  yet  where  she  will 
be." 

The  gentleman  remarked,  that  could  be  talked 
of  another  time;  and  took  his  leave.  Every  trace 
of  smiles  disappeared  from  Mrs.  Busby's  face  as 
he  closed  the  door  behind  him.  She  stepped  to 
the  window  and  drew  down  the  linen  shade  where 
the  sun  was  coming  too  brightly  in;  and  then  she 
stood  for  some  minutes  upon  the  hearth  rug,  grave 
and  thoughtful,  one  eyebrow  arched  in  meditation 
as  society  never  saw  it  arched.  Her  concluding 
thought  might  be  summed  up  thus: — "When  she 
is  under  my  care,  my  young  gentleman,  I  think 
she  will  not  be  under  yours.  Preposterous  !  " 

Mr.   Digby  had  his  thoughts  too  as  he  drove 


232  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

homeward.  They  will  never  get  on  together,  he 
said  to  himself.  It  will  not  be  happy  for  Rotha, 
nor  easy.  And  yet — it  is  the  best  thing  I  can  do 
for  her  just  now.  She  must  have  a  woman's  care ; 
and  whose  could  be  so  proper  as  her  aunt's  ?  Be- 
sides, I  shall  see  her  frequently;  I  shall  know 
all  that  concerns  her,  for  Rotha  will  tell  me; 
and  if  things  go  wrong,  I  can  at-  any  time  put 
in  my  hand  and  set  them  straight.  I  am  sorry — 
but  this  is  the  thing  to  do;  and  there  is  no  help 
for  it. 

In  spite  of  all  which  certainty  in  his  own  mind, 
Mr.  Digby  looked  forward  with  positive  uneasi- 
ness to  the  telling  Rotha  what  was  in  store  for 
her.  There  was  no  help  for  that  either;  it  must 
be  done;  and  Mr.  Digby  was  not  one  to  put  off  a 
duty  because  it  was  disagreeable. 

The  next  morning  Rotha  was  at  her  drawing 
again,  and  Mr.  Digby  lay  on  the  lounge,  thinking 
how  he  should  begin  what  he  had  to  say.  Rotha 
was  looking  particularly  well;  fresh  and  bright  and 
happy;  very  busily  intent  over  her  drawing.  How 
the  girl  had  improved  in  these  weeks,  softened  and 
refined  and  grown  mannerly.  She  has  good  blood 
in  her,  thought  Mr.  Digby;  her  features  shew  it, 
and  so  do  her  instincts,  and  her  aptitudes. 

"  How  would  you  like  to  go  to  school,  Rotha?  " 

She  looked  up,  with  the  flash  of  interest  and  of 
feeling  which  came  so  readily  to  her  eye. 

"  I  shouldn't  like  it  as  well  as  this,  Mr.  Digby," — 
("  this  "  meant  the  present  course  and  manner  of  her 


MRS.  BUSBY.  233 

education;)  "but  I  suppose  you  could  not  go  on 
teaching  me  always." 

"  I  am  not  tired  of  it,  Eotha;  but  I  think  it  would 
be  better  in  many  respects  for  you  to  be  at  school 
for  a  while.  You  will  like  it,  too." 

"When  shall  I  go,  Mr.  Digby?"  she  asked  in  a 
subdued  voice,  without  looking  up  this  time. 

"  The  sooner  the  better,  now.  The  schools  have 
all  begun  their  terms  some  weeks  ago.  And  then, 
Kotha,  yon  must  have  a  home  in  the  city.  You 
could  not  live  out  here  at  Fort  Washington,  and 
attend  school  in  New  York.  I  shall  be  obliged  to 
go  back  to  the  city,  too." 

"Then  I  would  like  to  go,"  said  Rotha  simply. 

"  But  you  must  have  more  care  than  mine,  my 
child ;  at  least  you  must  have  other  care.  You  must 
have  some  lady  friend,  to  look  after  you  as  I  cannot 
do.  I  am  going  to  put  you  under  your  aunt's 
protection." 

Botha's  pencil  fell  from  her  hand  and  she  raised 
her  head  now. 

"  My  aunt  ?  "  she  repeated. 

"Yes.  Your  mother's  sister;  Mrs.  Busby.  You 
knew  you  had  an  aunt  in  the  city  ?  " 

Rotha  disregarded  the  question.  She  left  her 
seat  and  came  and  stood  before  the  lounge,  in  the 
attitude  of  a  young  tragedy  queen ;  her  hands  inter- 
locked before  her,  her  face  pale,  and  not  only  pale 
but  spotted  with  colour,  in  a  way  that  shewed  a 
startling  interruption  of  the  ordinary  even  currents 
of  the  blood.  / 


234  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"O  Mr.  Digby,"  she  cried,  "not  her!  not  her! 
Do  not  give  me  up  to  her ! " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  he  asked  gently. 

"  She  is  not  good.  She  is  not  a  good  woman.  I 
don't  like  her.  I  can't  bear  the  thought  of  her. 
I  don't  want  to  have  anything  to  do  with  her. 
Please,  keep  me  from  her!  O  Mr.  Digby,  don't  let 
her  have  me  !  "  These  words  came  out  in  a  stream. 

"  My  dear  Rotha,  is  this  reasonable  ?  What  cause 
have  you  to  dislike  your  aunt  ?  " 

"  Because  she  wasn't  good  to  mother — she  didn't 
love  her — she  wasn't  kind  to  her.  She  is  not  a 
good  woman.  She  wouldn't  like  me.  I  don't  like 
her  dreadfully,  Mr.  Digby !  " 

The  words  Rotha  would  have  chosen  she  did  not 
venture  to  speak. 

"Hush,  hush,  child!  do  not  talk  so  fast.  Sit 
down,  and  let  us  see  what  all  this  means." 

"0  Mr.  Digby,  you  will  not  put  me  with  her?" 

"  Yes,  Rotha,  it  is  the  best.  We  will  try  it,  at 
least.  Why  Rotha !— Rotha  !— " 

She  had  flung  herself  down  on  the  floor,  on  her 
knees,  with  her  head  on  a  chair;  not  crying,  not  a 
tear  came ;  nor  sobbing ;  but  with  the  action  of  ab- 
solute despair.  It  would  have  done  for  high  trage- 
dy. Alas,  so  it  is  with  trouble  when  one  is  young ; 
it  seems  final  and  annihilating.  Age  knows  better. 

"  Rotha,"  Mr.  Digby  said  very  quietly  after  a  min- 
ute, "  why  do  you  dislike  your  aunt  so  ?  You  do 
not  know  her." 

"  0  Mr.  Digby,"  cried  the  girl  in  accents  of  misery, 


MRS.  BUSBY.  235 

"are  you  going  to  give  me  up  to  somebody  else? 
Are  you  going  to  give  me  up  to  her  ?  " 

"  No.  Not  to  her  nor  to  anybody.  I  am  not 
going  to  give  you  up  to  anybody.  Look  here,  Ro- 
tha.  Look  up,  and  bring  your  chair  here  and  sit 
down  by  me,  and  we  will  talk  this  over.  Come  !  " 

Yielding  to  the  imperative  tone  in  his  words,  she 
obeyed;  rose  up  and  brought  her  chair  close  and 
sat  down;  but  he  was  startled  to  see  the  change 
in  her  face.  It  was  livid;  and  it  was  woe-begoiie. 
She  took  her  place  submissively;  nevertheless  he 
could  perceive  that  there  was  a  terrible  struggle 
of  pain  going  on  in  the  girl.  He  put  out  his  hand, 
took  hers  kindly  and  held  it. 

"  Rotha — my  child — I  am  not  going  to  give  you 
up  to  anybody,"  he  repeated  gravely. 

Rotha  thought  it  practically  amounted  to  that, 
to  place  her  in  her  aunt's  house ;  words  were  not 
at  command.  A  sort  of  sob  wrung  from  her  breast. 

"  What  do  you  know  about  your  aunt  ?  " 

"  Not  much, — but  too  much,"  Rotha  laconically 
answered. 

"  Tell  me  what  you  know." 

"  I  know  she  wasn't  good  to  mother."  Then,  as 
Mr.  Digby  made  no  reply  to  this  unanswerable 
statement,  she  went  on; — "She  is  a  hard  woman; 
she  didn't  help  her.  She  is  rich,  rich  !  and  we  were 
— She  has  everything  in  the  world;  she  can  do 
whatever  she  likes;  she  rides  about  in  her  beauti- 
ful carriage;  and  we — we  were — you  know! — we 
were — if  it  hadn't  been  for  you — " 


236  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Rotha  had  choked  and  swallowed  several  times, 
and  then  the  gathered  passion  overcame  her. 
Thoughts  and  feelings  and  memories  came  like  the 
incoming  waves  on  a  level  shore  piling  up  one 
upon  another,  until  they  could  bear  their  own 
weight  and  rush  no  more  and  broke  all  together. 
The  girl  had  striven  to  command  herself  and  pre- 
vent the  outbreak  which  Mr.  Digby  did  not  like; 
and  the  restraint  had  acted  like  the  hindrance  of 
the  underlying  sands,  and  allowed  the  tide  of  feeling 
to  swell  till  there  was  no  longer  any  check  to  it. 
Restraint  was  gone  now,  although  Rotha  did  try  to 
keep  her  sobs  down ;  passion  and  grief  burst  out 
now  and  then  in  a  wail  of  despair,  and  she  struggled 
with  the  sobs  which  seemed  to  come  from  a  break- 
ing heart. 

Mr.  Digby  let  the  storm  have  its  way,  mean- 
while feeling  a  renewed  presentiment  that  the 
aunt  and  niece  would  never  get  on  well  together. 
In  the  granite  of  Mrs.  Busby's  composition  there 
lay,  he  judged,  a  good  deal  of  iron,  in  the  rough 
state  of  unpurified  ore.  Waves  beat  on  such  rock 
without  making  much  impression,  only  breaking 
themselves  to  pieces.  Would  such  encounters  take 
place  between  them  ?  Rotha's  character  was  not 
soft,  and  did  not  lack  its  iron  either;  but  in  an- 
other and  much  more  refined  form,  and  in  a 
widely  different  combination.  Had  he  done  well 
after  all  ?  And  yet  what  else  could  he  do  ?  And 
at  any  rate  it  was  too  late  now  to  go  back. 

He  waited   till   the   passion   of  the  storm  had 


MRS.  BUSBY.  237 

somewhat  lulled,  and  then  called  Kotha  gently. 
Gently,  but  there  was  a  certain  ring  in  his  voice 
too ;  and  Eotha  obeyed.  She  rose  from  the  floor, 
dried  her  eyes  and  came  and  stood  by  the  conch. 
She  was  in  no  manner  relieved ;  passion  had 
merely  given  place  to  an  expression  of  helpless 
despair. 

"  Sit  down,  Eotha,"  said  Mr.  Digby.  And  when 
she  had  done  it  he  took  her  hand  again. 

"  You  ought  not  to  allow  yourself  such  out- 
bursts," he  went  on,  still  very  gently. 

"  I  could  not  help  it.     I  tried — " 

"I  believe  you  tried;  and  for  a  time  you  did 
help  it." 

"I  know  it  displeases  you,"  she  said.  "I  did 
not  want  to  do  so  before  you." 

"  It  is  not  because  it  displeases  me,  that  I  want 
you  not  to  do  it;  but  because  it  is  not  right." 

"Why  not  right?"  she  asked  somewhat  defi- 
antly. 

"  Because  it  is  not  right  for  any  one  ever  to  lose 
command  of  himself." 

Eotha  seemed  to  prick  up  her  ears  at  that,  as  if 
the  idea  were  new,  but  she  said  nothing. 

"  You  will  ask  me  again  perhaps  why  ?  Eo- 
tha, if  you  lose  command  of  yourself,  who  takes 
it?" 

Eotha's  eye  carried  a  startled  inquiry  now.  "I 
suppose — nobody,"  she  said. 

"  Do  you  think  we  have  such  an  enemy  as  we 
have,  and  that  he  will  let  such  an  advantage  go 


238  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

unimproved?  No;  when  you  lose  command  of 
yourself  Satan  takes  it, — and  uses  it." 

"  What  does  he  do  with  it  ?  "  said  Rotha  in  full 
astonishment. 

"According  to  circumstances.  To  tempt  you  to 
wrong,  or  to  tempt  you  to  folly;  or  if  neither  of 
those,  to  break  down  your  mental  and  bodily 
powers,  so  that  you  shall  be  weaker  to  resist  him 
next  time." 

"  Mr.  Digby — do  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  And  when  people  go  on  in  a  way 
like  this,  giving  ground  to  Satan,  he  takes  all  they 
give,  until  finally  he  has  the  whole  rule  of  them. 
Then  they  seem  to  their  neighbours  to  be  slaves 
of  passion,  or  of  greed,  or  of  drink;  but  really  they 
are  '  possessed  of  the  devil,'  and  those  are  the  chains 
in  which  he  holds  them." 

"  Mr.  Digby,"  said  Rotha  humbly,  "  do  you  think 
I  have  been  losing  ground  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  have  been  gaining  ground,  for  a 
good  while." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  said  simply.  "  But  how  can  I 
help  it,  Mr.  Digby?" 

"  You  remember,"  he  said.  "  You  must  be  under 
one  king  or  the  other;  there  is  no  middle  ground. 
4  Whosoever  committeth  sin,  is  the  servant  of  sin ' ; 
— but,  'If  the  Son  shall  make  you  free,  ye  shall  be 
free  indeed.'" 

Rotha  drew  a  deep  sigh,  and  one  or  two  fresh 
tears  fell. 

"  Now,"  said  he  very  gently,  "  do  not  let  us  get 


MRS.  BUSBY.  239 

excited  again,  but  let  us  talk  quietly.  What  is  all 
this  about  ?  " 

"You  are  sending  me  away,"  said  Eotha;  "  and 
you  are  all  I  have  got." 

"  You  are  not  going  to  lose  me.  That  is  settled. 
Now  go  on.  What  next?" 

"But  I  shall  not  be  with  you?" 

"Not  every  day,  as  here.  But  I  hope  to  see 
you  very  often;  and  you  can  always  write  to  me 
if  you  have  anything  in  particular  upon  your 
mind." 

"Then,"  said  Kotha,  her  voice  several  shades 
clearer,  "  you  are  sending  me  to  be  with  a  person 
that  I  don't — respect." 

"  That  is  serious !  Are  you  sure  you  are  justified 
in  such  an  opinion,  with  no  more  grounds?" 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  said  Eotha.  "  I  do  not  think 
I  have  reason  to  respect  her." 

"Then  how  are  you  going  to  get  along  together?" 

"  I  am  sure  I  do  not  know." 

"Rotha,  I  may  ask  this  of  you.  I  ask  of  you  to 
behave  as  a  lady  should,  in  your  aunt's  house.  I 
ask  you  to  be  well-bred  and  well-mannered  always; 
whatever  you  feel." 

"  Do  you  think  I  can,  Mr.  Digby  ?  "  said  the  girl 
looking  earnestly  at  him. 

"  I  am  sure  of  it." 

"But — do  I  know  how?  " 

"I  will  give  you  an  unfailing  recipe,"  said  Mr. 
Digby  smiling.  " '  Whatsoever  ye  would  that  men 
should  do  to  you,  do  ye  even  so  to  them ' ;  and  for 


THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

details,  study  the  13th  chapter  of  the  first  epistle 
to  the  Corinthians." 

"Is  that  the  chapter  about  charity?" 

"  About  love.    The  word  means  love,  not  charity." 

"  Mr.  Digby,  it  is  very  hard  to  act  as  if  you  loved 
people,  when  you  do  not." 

"True,"  said  he  smiling.  "That  is  what  the 
world  means  by  good  manners.  But  what  Chris- 
tians should  mean  by  that  term  is  the  real  thing." 

"  And  1  do  not  think  I  can,"  liotha  went  on. 

"Do  not  try  to  make  believe  anything.  But  the 
courtesy  of  good  manners  you  can  give  to  every- 
body." 

"  If  I  do  not  lose  command  of  myself,"  said  Ro- 
tha.  "  I  will  try,  Mr.  Digby." 

"  I  think  you  can  do,  pretty  nearly,  Rotha,  -what- 
ever you  try." 

This  declaration  was  a  source  of  great  comfort 
to  the  girl,  and  a  great  help  towards  its  own  justi- 
fication; as  Mr.  Digby  probably  guessed.  Never- 
theless Rotha  grieved,  deeply  and  silently,  through 
the  days  that  followed.  Her  friend  saw  it,  and 
with  serious  disquiet.  That  passion  of  pain  and 
dismay  with  which  she  had  greeted  the  first  news 
of  what  was  before  her  was  no  transient  gust, 
leaving  the  air  as  clear  as  it  had  been  previously. 
True,  the  storm  was  over.  Rotha  obtruded  her 
feelings  in  no  way  upon  his  notice;  she  was  quiet 
and  docile  as  usual.  But  the  happiness  was  gone. 
There  were  rings  round  her  eyes,  which  told  of 
watching  or  of  weeping;  her  brow  was  clouded; 


MRS.  BUSBY.  241 

and  now  and  then  Mr.  Digby  saw  a  tear  or  two 
come  which  she  made  good  efforts  to  get  rid  of 
unseen.  She  was  mourning,  and  it  troubled  him ; 
but,  as  he  said  to  himself  over  and  over  again, 
"  there  was  no  help  for  it."  He  was  unselfish  about 
it;  for  to  himself  personally  there  was  no  doubt 
but  to  have  Kotha  safely  lodged  with  her  aunt 
would  be  a  great  relief.  He  had  other  business 
to  attend  to. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

MRS.  BUSBY'S  HOUSE. 

BY  the  beginning  of  the  week  Rotha  had  re- 
covered command  of  herself,  externally  at 
least;  and  on  the  Monday  Mr.  Digby  and  his 
charge  were  to  go  to  Mrs.  Busby's.  It  was  the 
first  of  November;  dull,  cloudy  and  cold;  getting 
ready  for  snow,  Mr.  Digby  said,  to  judge  by  the 
sky.  From  the  clouds  his  eye  came  down  to  Ro- 
tha, who  had  just  entered  the  room  dressed  for 
her  departure. 

"  Rotha,"  said  he,  "  what  is  that  you  have  on  ?  " 

"  My  brown  lawn,  Mr.  Digby." 

"  Lawn  ?  on  such  a  day  as  this  ?  You  want  a 
warmer  dress,  my  child." 

Rotha  hesitated  and  coloured. 

"  My  warm  dresses — are  not  very  nice,"  she  said 
with  some  difficulty.  "  I  thought  I  must  look  as 
well  as  I  could." 

"And  I  have  forgotten  that  the  season  was 
changing !  and  left  you  without  proper  provision. 
You  see,  Rotha,  I  never  had  the  charge  of  a  young 
lady  before.  Never  mind,  dear;  that  will  soon  be 

made  right.     But  put  on  something  warm,  no  mat- 
(242) 


MRS.  BUSBY'S  HOUSE.  243 

ter  how  it  looks.  You  will  take  cold  with  that 
thiii  dress." 

Rotha  hesitated. 

"  I  don't  think  you  will  like  it,  if  I  put  on  ray 
old  winter  frock,"  she  said. 

"  I  would  like  it  better  than  your  getting  sick. 
Change  your  dress  by  all  means." 

When  Rotha  carne  in  again,  she  was  a  different 
figure.  She  had  put  on  an  old  grey  merino,  which 
had  once  belonged  to  her  mother  and  had  been 
made  over  for  her.  At  the  time  she  had  rejoiced 
much  over  it ;  now  Rotha  had  got  a  new  standard 
for  judging  of  dresses,  and  she  seemed  to  herself 
very  "mean"  looking.  Truly,  the  old  grey  gown 
had  been  made  a  good  while  ago ;  the  fashion  had 
changed,  and  Rotha  had  grown;  it  was  scant  now 
and  had  lost  even  a  distant  conformity  with  pre- 
vailing modes.  Moreover  it  was  worn,  and  it 
was  faded,  and  it  was  riot  even  very  clean.  Rotha 
thought  Mr.  Digby  would  hardly  endure  it;  she 
herself  endured  it  only  under  stress  of  authority. 
He  looked  at  her  a  little  gravely. 

"  That's  the  best  you  have,  is  it  ?  Never  mind, 
Rotha;  it  is  I  who  am  to  blame.  I  am  very  much 
ashamed  of  myself,  for  forgetting  that  winter  was 
corning." 

He  had  never  known  what  it  was,  in  all  his  life, 
to  want  a  thick  coat  or  a  thin  coat  and  not  find 
it  in  his  wardrobe;  and  that  makes  people  forget. 

"This  will  not  do,  do  you  think  it  will,  Mr. 
Digby?"  said  Rotha  tentatively. 


244  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Better  than  to  have  you  get  sick.  It  will  keep 
you  warm,  will  it  not?  and  we  will  soon  have 
you  fitted  up  with  better  supplies." 

It  was  not  time  quite  for  the  carriage  to  be  at 
the  door,  and  Mr.  Digby  sat  down  to  a  bit  of 
drawing;  he  was  making  a  copy  for  Botha.  Rotha 
stood  by,  doubtful  and  thoughtful. 

"  Mr.  Digby,"  she  said  at  last  shyly,  "  there  is 
something  I  should  like  very  much  to  ask." 

"  Ask  it,  Rotha." 

"But  I  do  not  know  whether  you  would  like 
it — and  yet  I  cannot  know  without  asking — " 

"  Naturally.     What  is  it,  Rotha  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Digby,  my  mother  hadn't  anything  at  all, 
had  she  ?  Money,  I  mean." 

"  Of  late  ?     No,  Rotha,  I  believe  not." 

The  girl  hesitated  and  struggled  with  herself. 

"  I  thought  so,"  she  said.  "  And  while  it  was 
you,  I  didn't  mind.  But  now, — how  will  it  be, 
Mr.  Digby?" 

Mr.  Digby  got  at  the  sense  of  this  by  some 
intuition. 

"  Who  will  be  at  the  charge  of  your  schooling, 
you  mean  ?  and  other  things  ?  Certainly  I,  Rotha, 
unless  your  aunt  wishes  very  decidedly  that  it 
should  be  herself." 

"  She  will  not  wish  that,"  said  the  girl.  "  Then, 
Mr.  Digby,  when  I  am  done  with  school — what 
am  I  to  do  ?  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  Be- 
cause if  I  knew,  I  might  work  better  to  get  ready 
for  it." 


MRS.  BUSBY'S  HOUSE.  245 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Digby,  making  some  easy 
strokes  with  his  pencil,  every  one  of  which  how- 
ever meant  something, — "there  is  generally  some- 
thing for  everybody  to  do  in  this  world;  but  we 
cannot  always  tell  what,  till  the  time  comes.  The 
best  way  is  to  prepare  yourself,  as  far  as  possible, 
for  everything." 

"  But  I  cannot  do  that,"  said  Rotha,  with  the 
nearest  approach  to  a  laugh  that  she  had  made 
since  the  previous  Friday. 

"Yes,  you  can.  First,  be  a  good  woman;  and 
then,  get  all  the  knowledge  and  all  the  accomplish- 
ments, and  all  the  acquirements,  that  come  in  your 
way.  Drawing,  certainly,  for  you  have  a  true 
love  for  that.  How  is  it  with  music?  Are  you 
fond  of  it?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  Eotha  said  low.  "  Mr.  Digby, 
can  I  not — some  time — do  something  for  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  looking  up  at  her  with  a  laugh- 
ing glance,  "you  can  do  all  these  things  for  me. 
I  want  you  to  be  as  good  a  woman,  and  as  wise  a 
woman,  and  as  accomplished  a  woman,  as  you  are 
able  to  become." 

"  Then  I  will,"  said  Rotha  very  quietly. 

The  carriage  came.  Rotha  covered  up  her  old 
dress  as  well  as  she  could  under  her  silk  mantle, 
very  ill  satisfied  with  the  joint  effect,  She  behaved 
very  well,  however;  was  perfectly  quiet  during  the 
drive,  and  only  once  asked, 

"  Mr.  Digby,  you  said  I  might  write  to  you  ?  " 

"  As  often  as  you  like.     But  you  will  see  me  too, 


246  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Rotha,  though  not  every  day.  If  anything  goes 
wrong  with  you,  let  me  know." 

That  was  all;  and  then  the  carriage  turned  a  cor- 
ner and  stopped  in  a  street  of  high,  regular,  stately 
houses,  with  high  flights  of  doorsteps.  Poor  Rotha 
felt  her  gown  dreadfully  out  of  place ;  but  her  bear- 
ing did  not  betray  her.  She  was  trying  hard  to 
form  herself  on  Mr.  Digby's  model,  and  so  to  be 
even  and  calm  and  unimpassioned  in  her  manners. 
Not  easy,  when  a  young  heart  beats  as  hers  was 
beating  then.  They  entered  the  house.  Mrs.  Busby 
was  not  in,  the  servant  said ;  at  the  same  time  she 
opened  the  door  of  the  parlour,  and  Mr.  Digby  and 
Rotha  went  in. 

Nobody  was  there ;  only  the  luxurious  presence 
of  warmth  and  colour  and  softness  and  richness, 
whichever  way  the  girl  looked.  She  tried  not  to 
look;  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  glowing  grate; 
while  a  keen  sense  of  wrong  and  a  bitter  feeling 
of  resentment  and  opposition  swelled  her  heart. 
This  was  how  her  aunt  lived !  and  her  mother  had 
done  sewing  for  her  bread,  and  not  got  it.  If  the 
flowers  in  the  carpet  had  been  living  exotics,  they 
would  have  thriven  in  the  warm  air  that  surrounded 
them,  and  feared  no  frost;  and  her  mother's  fire 
had  been  fed  by  charity !  It  was  to  the  credit  of 
Rotha's  budding  power  of  self-command  that  she 
shewed  nothing  of  what  she  felt.  She  was  out- 
wardly calm  and  impassive. 

Then  the  heavy  door  was  pushed  inward  and  a 
figure  appeared  for  which  she  was  scarcely  pre- 


MRS.  BUSBY'S  HOUSE.  247 

pared.  A  young  girl  of  about  her  own  age,  also 
a  contrast.  There  was  nothing  but  contrasts  here. 
She  was  excessively  pretty,  and  as  lively  as  a  soap 
bubble.  Something  of  her  mother's  hardness  of 
outlines,  perhaps;  but  in  that  fifteen  must  needs 
be  far  different  from  fifty;  and  this  face  was  soft 
enough,  with  a  lovely  tinting  of  white  and  red, 
charming  little  pearly  teeth,  a  winning  smile,  and 
pretty  movements.  She  was  not  so  tall  as  Rotha ; 
and  generally  they  were  as  unlike  as  two  girls 
could  be.  In  dress  too,  as  in  everything  else.  This 
new-comer  on  the  scene  was  as  bright  as  a  flower; 
in  a  new  cashmere,  fashionably  made,  of  a  green 
hue  that  set  off  the  fresh  tints  of  her  skin,  edged 
with  delicate  laces  which  softened  the  lines  between 
the  one  and  the  other.  She  came  in  smiling  and 
eager. 

"  Mr.  South wode  !  how  long  it  is  since  we  have 
seen  you !  What  made  you  stay  away  so  ?  Mamma 
is  out ;  she  told  me  if  you  came  I  must  see  you.  I 
am  so  sorry  she  is  out !  No,  I  am  very  glad  to  see 
you;  but  I  know  you  wanted  to  see  mamma.  I'll 
do  as  well  as  I  can."  And  she  smiled  most  gra- 
ciously on  him,  but  hitherto  had  not  looked  at  Ro- 
tha, though  Mr.  Digby  knew  one  glance  of  her  eye 
had  taken  her  all  in. 

"  Miss  Antoinette,"  said  he,  shaking  hands  with 
her,  "this  is  your  cousin." 

The  eyes  came  round,  the  smile  faded. 

"  Oh ! — "  said  she.  "  I  knew  it  must  be  you. 
How  do  you  do  ?  Mamma  is  out;  she'll  be  so  sorry. 


248  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

But  jour  room  is  ready.  Would  you  like  to  go  up 
to  it  at  once,  and  take  off  your  things?" — Then 
without  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  pulled  the  bell 
twice,  and  springing  to  the  door  cried  out,  "Lesbia! 
Lesbia! — Lesbia,  where  are  you?  O  here  you  are. 
Lesbia,  take  this — young  lady — up  stairs  and  shew 
her  her  room — you  know,  the  little  room  that  you 
put  in  order  yesterday.  Take  her  up  there  and 
shew  her  where  things  are;  and  then  take  her  to 
mamma's  room;  do  you  understand?  Miss  Car- 
penter— what  is  her  name,  Mr.  Southwode?  Ro- 
tha?  O  what  a  lovely  name!  Kotha,  if  you^will 
go  up  stairs  with  the  girl,  she  will  shew  you  your 
way." 

"  I  will  not  go  yet,  thank  you,"  said  Rotha. 

Antoinette  looked  at  her,  seemingly  taken  aback 
at  this. 

"Don't  you  want  to  go  up  and  take  off  your 
things  ? "  she  said.  "  I  think  you  will  be  more 
comfortable." 

"  I  would  rather  stay  here." 

Mr.  Digby  suppressed  a  smile,  and  had  also  to 
suppress  a  sigh.  This  by-play  was  very  clear  to 
him,  and  gave  him  forebodings.  He  hoped  it  was 
not  clear  to  Rotha.  However,  he  did  not  much 
prolong  his  stay  after  that.  He  knew  it  was  pain 
to  Rotha  and  better  ended;  she  must  learn  to  swim 
in  these  new  waters,  and  the  sooner  she  was  pushed 
from  her  hold  the  kinder  the  hard  service  would 
be.  So  he  took  leave  of  Miss  Antoinette,  and  then, 
taking  Rotha's  cold  hand,  he  did  what  he  had  never 


MRS.  BUSBY'S  HOUSE.  249 

done  before;  stooped  down  and  kissed  her.  He 
said  only  one  word,  "  Kemember ! " — and  went  away. 

He  had  thought  to  give  the  girl  a  little  bit  of 
comfort;  and  he  had  not  only  comforted  her,  but 
lifted  her  up  into  paradise,  for  the  moment.  A 
whole  flood  tide  of  pleasure  seemed  to  pour  itself 
into  Rotha's  heart,  making  her  deaf  and  blind  to 
what  was  around  her  or  what  Antoinette  said. 
She  went  up  stairs  like  one  on  wings,  with  the 
blood  tingling  in  every  corner  of  her  frame.  If  she 
had  known,  or  if  Mr.  Digby  had  guessed,  what  that 
kiss  was  to  cost  her.  But  that  is  the  way  in  this 
life ;  we  start  and  shiver  at  the  entrance  of  what  is 
to  be  a  path  of  flowers  to  our  feet ;  and  we  welcome 
eagerly  the  sugared  bait  which  is  to  bring  us  into 
a  network  of  difficulty. 

There  was  an  under  current  of  different  feeling 
however,  in  Botha's  mind;  and  the  two  girls  as 
they  went  up  stairs  were  as  great  a  contrast  to 
each  other  as  could  be  imagined.  The  one  carried 
a  heart  conscious  of  a  secret  and  growing  weight ; 
the  other  had  scarce  gravity  enough  to  keep  her  to 
the  earth's  surface.  So  the  .one  tripped  lightly  on 
ahead,  and  the  other  mounted  slowly,  rebelling  in- 
wardly at  every  step  she  set  her  foot  upon.  What  a 
long  flight  of  stairs !  and  how  heavily  carpeted ;  and 
with  what  massive  balusters  framed  in.  Nothing 
like  it  had  Rotha  ever  seen,  and  she  set  her  teeth 
as  she  mounted.  Arrived  at  last  at  the  second 
floor,  Antoinette  passed  swiftly  along  to  the  foot  of 
another  flight.  "There  is  mamma's  room,"  said  she, 


250  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

pointing  to  an  open  door;  "and  that  is  mine,"  indi- 
cating a  small  room  adjoining;  "now  here  is  yours." 
She  had  got  to  the  top,  and  preceded  Kotha  into  the 
small  room  off  the  hall  at  the  head  of  the  stairs. 

It  was  very  small,  of  course;  furnished  with  suf- 
ficient neatness,  but  certainly  with  old  things.  It 
was  not  like  the  rest  of  the  house.  That  was  no 
matter;  the  furniture  was  still  as  good  as  Rotha 
had  been  accustomed  to  in  her  best  days,  at  home ; 
yet  she  missed  something.  It  looked  poor  and 
bare,  and  veiy  cramped.  Perhaps  one  reason 
might  be,  that  the  day  was  chill  and  dark  and 
here  were  no  signs  of  a  fire,  nor  even  a  place  to 
make  one;  and  that  luxury  Rotha  had  never 
missed.  Her  mother  and  she  had  kept  scant  fires 
at  one  time,  it  is  true ;  but  since  Mr.  Digby  had 
taken  the  oversight  of  their  affairs,  their  rooms 
had  been  always  deliciously  warm.  Anyhow,  the 
place  made  a  cheerless  impression  on  Rotha.  She 
took  off  her  hat  and  mantle. 

"Where  are  they  to  go?"  she  asked  her  com- 
panion. 

"  You  can  put  the.  mantle  in  one  of  those 
drawers." 

"  Not  my  hat,  though.'' 

"Yes,  you  could,  if  you  turn  up  the  edges  a  lit- 
tle. O  never  mind;  it'll  go  somewhere,  and  you 
can't  wear  that  hat  any  longer  now.  It's  too  cold. 
Let  us  go  down  to  mamma's  room." 

This  was  the  large  front  room  on  the  second 
floor.  Here  was  a  warm  fire,  a  cosy  set  of  easy 


MRS.  BUSBY'S  HOUSE.  251 

chairs,  tables  with  work,  a  long  mirror  in  the  door 
of  the  wardrobe  between  the  windows;  a  general 
air  of  comfort  and  household  living.  Antoinette's 
room  opened  into  this,  and  the  door  stood  thrown 
back,  letting  the  fire  warmth  penetrate  there  also ; 
and  a  handsome  dressing  table  was  visible  stand- 
ing before  the  window.  Antoinette  stirred  the 
fire  and  sat  down.  Rotha  stood  at  the  corner  of 
the  hearth,,  charging  herself  to  be  cool  and  keep 
quiet. 

"  Where  did  you  come  from  ?  "  Antoinette  began 
cheerfully.  "  We  might  as  well  get  acquainted." 

"Will  that  help  you?"  said  Rotha. 

"  Help  me  what  ?  " 

"  You  said  we  might  as  well  get  acquainted." 

"  Well  I  want  to  know  where  you  come  from,  to 
be  sure,"  said  the  other  girl  laughing.  "  I  always 
want  to  know  where  people  come  from.  It's  one 
of  the  first  things  I  want  to  know." 

"I  come  from  Medwayville,"  said  Rotha.  "That 
is  a  place  in  the  western  part  of  the  state." 

"  But  you  don't  come  from  there  now.  I  know 
you  did  live  in  Medwayville.  But  where  do  you 
come  from  now  ?  " 

There  sprang  up  in  Rotha's  mind  an  instant  and 
unwonted  impulse  of  reserve;  she  hardly  knew 
why.  So  she  answered, 

"Mr.  Digby  brought  me;  he  can  tell  you  about 
the  place  better  than  I  can." 

"Why,  don't  you  know  where  you  have  been 
living?" 


252  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  I  know  the  place  when  I  see  it.  I  could  not 
find  ray  way  to  it." 

"  Then  you  can't  have  the  organ  of  locality.  Do 
you  know  about  organs,  and  bumps  on  the  head  ? 
That's  what  is  called  phrenology.  Mamma  thinks 
a  great  deal  of  phrenology;  she'll  be  examining 
your  head,  the  first  thing." 

"  Examining  my  head  !  " 

"  Yes,  to  find  out  what  you  are,  you  know.  She 
has  a  little  map,  with  everything  marked  on  it  ?  so 
she'll  feel  your  head  to  see  where  the  bumps  are, 
and  where  she  finds  a  bump  she  will  look  in  her 
map  to  see  what's  there,  and  then  she'll  know  you 
have  it." 

"What?  "said  Rotha. 

"  That;  whatever  the  map  says  the  bump  ought 
to  be." 

"There  are  no  bumps  on  my  head,"  said  Rotha  a 
little  proudly;  "it  is  quite  round." 

"  0  you're  mistaken ;  everybody  has  bumps ;  when 
the  head  is  round,  it  means  something,  I  forget 
what;  whether  bad  or  good.  Mamma'll  know;  and 
she'll  judge  you  by  your  head.  How  long  have 
you  known  Mr.  Southwode  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Don't  know  how  long  you  have  known  him  ?  r 

"  I  do  not  know  just  how  long  it  is." 

"01  didn't  mean  that.  Have  you  known  him  a 
month  ?  " 

"  More  than  that." 

"  How  came  you  to  know  him  at  all  ?  " 


MRS.  BUSBY'S  HOUSE.  253 

"  He  came  to  see  us  ?  " 

"Us?  You  and  aunt  Eunice?  What  made  him 
go  to  see  you  ?  at  first,  I  mean." 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?  "  said  Rotha,  more  and  more 
displeased. 

"  Well,  do  you  like  him  ?  " 

The  answer  did  not  come  suddenly. 

"  Do  I  like  Mr.  Digby  ?  "  Kotha  said  slowly.  "  I 
think  I  do." 

"  We  do.  What  sort  of  a  carriage  was  he  in 
when  he  was  overturned  ?  " 

"A  little  phaeton." 

"  One-horse  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Was  he  alone  ?  " 

"No." 

"  What  became  of  the  other  person  ?  " 

"Thrown  out,  like  him." 

"Hurt?" 

"No." 

"  Do  you  know  who  it  was  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Who  was  it?" 

"It  was!" 

"  You  ?  "  exclaimed  Antoinette.  "  \Yere  you  driv- 
ing with  Mr.  Southwode  ?  How  came  you  to  be 
going  with  him  ?  " 

"  Why  should  I  not  ?  " 

"  Why — "  with  a  glance  at  Rotha's  dress.  Ro- 
tha  saw  and  understood,  but  would  not  enlighten 
her. 


254  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Did  you  ever  go  with  him  before  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  How  many  times  ?  " 

But  Rotha  was  getting  amused  now,  and  was 
mistress  of  the  situation.  "Does  it  matter  how 
many  times  ?  "  she  said  quite  unexcitedly. 

"  He  never  took  me  anywhere,"  said  Antoinette. 
"  I  declare,  I'll  make  him.  It  isn't  using  me  well. 
What  makes  you  call  Jbdm  Mr.  Digby  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  accustomed  to  call  him  so." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  to  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"I  wonder  if  he'd  let  me?  I  don't  believe 
mamma  would,  though.  She  won't  let  you  either 
do  it  any  more.  Digby  is  Mr.  South  wode's  first 
name.  She  would  say  it  was  too  familiar,  to  call 
him  by  his  first  name,  even  with  a  'Mr.'  to  it. 
Mamma's  a  little  poky  at  times.  But  how  did  you 
come  to  know  him  first  ?  you  haven't  told  me." 

"  I  suppose,  the  same  way  you  came  to  know 
him,"  said  Rotha  slowly. 

But  the  suggestion  of  anything  similar  in  what 
concerned  the  social  circumstances  of  her  and  her 
cousin,  struck  Antoinette  with  such  a  sense  of 
novelty  that,  for  a  moment  she  was  nonplussed. 
Then  her  eye  fell  upon  the  clock  on  the  mantel- 
piece, and  she  started  up. 

"  I  must  rush  right  off,"  she  said;  "  it  is  time  for 
my  drawing  lesson.  That's  one  thing  I  don't  get 
in  school.  Have  you  ever  been  to  school  ?  " 

"No." 


MRS.  BUSBY'S  HOUSE.  255 

"  I  suppose  you  don't  know  much,  then.  Won't 
you  have  to  work,  though!  I  am  sorry  I  must  go 
and  leave  you  alone;  but  mamma  will  be  in  by 
and  by." 

While  she  was  speaking,  Antoinette  had  been 
putting  on  her  wraps  to  go  out;  handsome,  ample, 
and  becoming  they  were.  A  dark  green  cloak  of 
some  figured,  lustrous  stuff;  a  little  green  hat  with 
a  coquettish  leather;  gloves  fitting  nicely;  and 
finally  a  little  embroidered  pockethaudkerchief 
stuffed  into  an  outer  pocket  of  her  cloak.  Then 
taking  her  portfolio,  Antoinette  hurried  away. 

Rotha  felt  a  sense  of  uneasiness  growing  upon 
her.  She  was  not  at  home,  and  nothing  promised 
her  that  she  ever  would  be,  in  this  house.  For 
awhile  she  sat  still  where  she  was,  looking  and 
thinking ;  or  rather  feeling ;  for  thought  was  scarce- 
ly organized.  She  was  tired  at  last  of  the  still- 
ness, the  ticking  of  the  clock  and  the  soft  stir  of 
the  coals  in  the  grate  or  falling  of  ashes  into  the 
pan.  She  went  down  to  the  parlour  again,  having 
a  mind  to  become  a  little  acquainted  with  her  new 
surroundings  while  she  could  make  her  observa- 
tions unobserved;  and  besides,  that  parlour  was  a 
study  to  Rotha ;  she  had  seen  nothing  like  it.  She 
went  down  and  took  her  seat  upon  an  ottoman, 
and  surveyed  things.  How  beautiful  it  all  was, 
she  thought;  beyond  imagination  beautiful.  The 
colours  and  figures  in  the  carpet;  the  rich  crim- 
sons and  soft  drabs,  and  the  thick,  rich  pile  to  the 
stuff,  what  a  wonder  they  were  to  her.  The  win- 


256  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

dow  curtains,  hanging  in  stately  folds  and  dra- 
peries of  drab,  with  broad  bands  of  crimson  satin 
shot  through  the  tamer  colour,  how  royal  they 
were !  And  did  anybody  ever  see  anything  so 
magnificent  as  the  glass  in  the  pier,  which  filled 
the  space  from  floor  to  ceiling  between  those  royal 
draperies?  The  furniture  was  dark  and  polished, 
as  to  the  wood ;  covers  of  striped  drilling  hid  what 
might  be  the  beauty  of  cushions  beneath,  and  Ro- 
tha  was  not  one  of  the  sort  that  can  lift  a  corner  to 
see  what  was  hidden.  There  was  enough  not  hid- 
den, and  she  could  wait.  But  as  her  eye  roved 
from  one  thing  to  another,  her  heart  gathered  fuel 
for  a  fire  that  presently  rivalled  its  more  harmless 
neighbour  in  the  grate;  a  fierce,  steady,  intense 
glow  of  wrath  and  indignation.  This  was  how  her 
mother's  sister  lived  and  had  been  living;  and  her 
mother  in  the  poor  little  rooms  in  Jane  Street. 
Magnificence  and  luxury  here;  and  there  toil  and 
the  bread  of  charity.  And  not  a  hand  held  out  to 
help,  nor  love  enough  to  be  called  upon  for  it.  Ro- 
tha's  heart  fed  its  fire  with  dark  displeasure.  There 
was  built  up  a  barrier  between  her  and  her  aunt, 
which  threatened  perpetual  severance.  Kindness 
might  break  it  down;  Rotha  was  open  to  kindness; 
but  from  this  quarter  she  did  not  expect  it.  She 
bent  her  determination  however  on  behaving  her- 
self so  as  Mr.  Digby  had  wished.  She  would  not 
shew  what  she  thought.  She  would  be  quiet  and 
polite  and  unexcited,  like  him.  Poor  Rotha !  The 
fire  should  burn  in  her,  and  yet  she  would  keep  cool ! 


MRS.  BUSBY'S  HOUSE.  257 

She  was  studying  the  gas  reading  stand  on  the 
centre  table,  marvelling  at  the  beauty  of  its  marble 
shaft  and  the  mystery  of  its  cut  glass  shade,  where 
bunches  of  grapes  and  vine  leaves  wandered  about 
in  somewhat  stiff  order;  when  the  door  of  the  room 
opened  softly  and  Mrs.  Busby  came  in.  Rotha 
divined  immediately  that  it  was  her  aunt;  the  lady 
wore  still  the  bonnet  and  the  shawl  in  which  she 
had  been  abroad,  and  had  the  air  of  the  mistress, 
indefinable  but  well  to  be  recognized.  Softly  she 
shut  the  door  behind  her  and  came  towards  the 
fire.  Rotha  did  not  dislike  her  appearance.  The 
features  were  good,  the  eyes  keen,  the  manner 
quiet 

"And  this  is  my  niece  Rotha,"  she  said  with 
a  not  unkindly  smile.  "How  do  you  do?"  She 
took  her  hand  and  kissed  her.  Alas!  the  kiss  was 
smooth  ice.  Rotha  remembered  the  last  kiss  that 
had  touched  her  lips;  how  warm  and  soft  and  firm 
too  it  had  been;  it  meant  something.  This  means 
nothing  but  civility,  thought  Rotha  to  herself. 

"You  are  all  alone?"  Mrs.  Busby  went  on. 
"Antoinette  had  to  go  out.  Shall  we  go  up 
stairs,  to  my  room  ?  We  never  sit  here  in  the 
morning." 

Rotha  followed  her  aunt  up  stairs,  where  Mrs. 
Busby  laid  off  hat  and  shawl  and  made  herself 
comfortable,  calling  a  maid  to  take  them  and  to 
brighten  up  the  fire. 

"I'll  have  luncheon  up  here,  Lesbia,"  she  said 
by  the  way.  "Now  Rotha,  tell  me  all  about  your- 


258  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

self  and  your  mother.  I  have  heard  nothing  for  a 
long  while,  unless  from  some  third  person." 

"  Mother  was  ill  a  long  time,"  said  Rotha,  uncer- 
tain how  to  render  obedience  to  this  command. 

"Yes,  I  know.  When  did  you  come  to  New 
York?" 

"  It  is — two  years  now." 

"  Two  years ! "  Mrs.  Busby  started  up  in  her 
chair  a  little,  and  a  faint  colour  rose  in  her  cheeks ; 
then  it  faded  arid  her  lips  took  a  hard  set.  "  111  all 
that  time  ?  " 

"No.     She  was  not  ill  for  the  first  year." 

"  Say,  '  No  ma  am,'  my  dear.  That  is  the  proper 
way.  Do  you  know  what  induced  her  to  move  to 
New  York,  Rotha?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Rotha  colouring. 

"  May  I  know  ?  '' 

"  Didn't  you  know  we  were  very  poor  ?  "  said  Ro- 
tha in  a  lower  voice. 

"  How  was  that  the  reason  ?  " 

"  We  couldn't — I  mean — she  couldn't,  get  work 
at  Medwayville." 

"  Get  work !  "  Mrs.  Busby  was  silent.  Perhaps 
that  was  an  unfruitful,  and  would  prove  an  unre- 
freshing,  field  of  inquiry.  She  would  leave  it  un- 
explored for  the  present.  She  paused  a  little. 

"So  since  then  you  have  been  living  in  New 
York?" 

"Yes." 

A  longer  pause  followed.  Mrs.  Busby  looked  at 
the  fire  and  raised  one  eyebrow. 


MRS.  BUSBY'S  HOUSE.  259 

"  Under  whose  care  have  you  been  living,  my 
dear,  since  you  lost  your  mother's  ?  " 

Rotha  hesitated.  Great  soreness  of  heart  com- 
bined now  with  another  feeling  to  make  her  \vords 
difficult.  She  did  not  at  all  want  to  answer.  Nev- 
ertheless the  girl's  temper  was  to  be  frank,  and  she 
saw  no  way  of  evasion  here. 

"  I  have  had  nobody  but  Mr.  Digby,"  she  said. 

"  Mr.  Digby!  Mr.  Southwode,  you  mean?  That 
is  his  name,  my  dear ;  don't  speak  of  him  as  '  Mr. 
Digby.'" 

Rotha's  mouth  opened,  and  closed.  She  was 
forming  herself  with  all  her  might  on  Mr.  Digby's 
model;  and  besides  that,  she  was  trying  to  obey 
his  injunctions  about  pleasant  behaviour. 

"  Where  have  you  lived  all  this  time  ?  "  a  little 
shorter  than  the  former  questions  had  been  put. 

"  Since  we  came  to  New  York  ?  " 

"No,  no;  since  you  have  been  under  this  gen- 
tleman's care  ?  Where  have  you  been  ?  " 

"  In  a  pleasant  place  near  the  river.  I  do  not 
know  the  name  of  the  street." 

"  Who  took  care  of  you  there,  Rotha  ?  " 

Rotha  lifted  her  eyes.  "  Mr.  Digby — Mr.  South- 
wode." 

"Mr.  Southwode!     Did  he  live  there  himself?" 

"Yes,  at  that  time;  not  always." 

"  Near  the  river,  and  in  New  York  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Busby,  mystified. 

"  I  did  not  say  in  New  York.  It  was  out  of  the 
city." 


260  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  I  was  out  of  town,"  said  Mrs.  Busby  musingly. 
"I  wish  I  had  come  home  earlier,  that  I  might 
have  received  you  at  once.  But  I  am  glad  I  have 
got  you  now,  my  dear.  Now  you  will  have  the 
pleasure  of  going  to  school  with  Antoinette.  You 
will  like  that,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  ma'am.     I  think  so." 

"Why  you  want  to  learn,  don't  you?  You  don't 
want  to  be  ignorant;  and  the  only  way  is  to  go 
to  school  and  study  hard.  Have  you  ever  been  to 
school  at  all  ?  " 

"No,  ma'am." 

"You  will  have  a  great  deal  to  do.  And  the 
very  first  thing  for  me  to  do  is  to  see  to  your 
wardrobe,  that  you  may  begin  at  once.  Your  box 
has  come;  I  found  it  down  stairs  when  I  came  in, 
and  I  had  it  taken  right  up  to  your  room.  Have 
you  the  key  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"Then  go  up,  my  dear,  immediately;  and  bring 

down  all  your  best  dresses.  Then  I  can  see  what 
is  to  be  done." 

As  Rotha  went  out,  enter  Antoinette. 

"  O  mamma,  here  you  are !  I'm  glad,  I'm  sure. 
I  don't  want  that  young  lady  on  my  hands  any 
more." 

"  How  do  you  like  her,  Antoinette  ?  " 

"  Mamma,  did  you  ever  see  such  a  figure  ?  You 
won't  let  her  go  down  stairs  till  she  is  decently 
dressed,  will  you  ?  I  should  be  ashamed  for  even 
Lesbia  to  see  her." 


MRS.  BUSBY'S  HOUSE.  261 

"Lesbia  has  got  to  see  her  and  make  the  best 
of  it." 

"0  but  servants  always  make  the  worst  of  it. 
And  company — she  couldrit  be  seen  by  company, 
mamma.  Why  she  looks  as  if  she  had  come  out 
of  the  year  one.  To  have  such  a  creature  supposed 
to  belong  to  us  !  " 

"Mr.  South wode  brought  her?" 

"  Yes,  mamma ;  and  you  should  have  seen  the 
parting.  I  declare,  it  was  rather  striking !  He 
kissed  her,  mamma,  fancy!  a  real  smacking  kiss; 
and  Rotha  coloured  up  as  if  she  was  delighted.  Did 
you  ever  hear  anything  like  it  ?  " 

"  She  has  done  with  him  now,"  said  Mrs.  Busby 
drily. 

"  How'll  you  manage,  mamma,  if  he  comes  and 
asks  for  her  ?  " 

"  Get  your  things  off,  Antoinette,  and  make  your- 
self ready  for  dinner.  Ah,  here  comes  Rotha." 

Rotha's  arms  were  full  of  muslin  and  lawn  dresses, 
which  she  deposited  on  the  table.  Antoinette  for- 
got or  disregarded  the  order  she  had  received  and 
came  to  take  part  in  the  inspection.  With  a  face 
of  curiosity  and  business  at  once,  Mrs.  Busby  un- 
folded, examined,  refolded,  one  after  another. 

"  Mamma !  how  pretty  that  is !  "  exclaimed  her 
daughter;  "  and  that  ashes  of  roses  is  lovely !  " 

"Fine,"  said  Mrs.  Busby;  "very  fine.  No  spar- 
ing of  money.  Well  made.  Your  mother  cannot 
have  felt  herself  in  straits  when  she  made  such 
purchases  as  these,  Rotha." 


262  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Botha's  heart  gave  a  bound,  but  she  shut  her 
lips  and  was  silent.  Some  instinct  within  her 
was  stronger  than  even  the  impulse  to  justify 
her  mother.  What  did  it  matter,  what  her  aunt 
thought  ? 

"These  are  all  summer  dresses,"  Mrs.  Busby  went 
on.  "  They  are  of  no  use  at  this  season.  Where  are 
your  warm  clothes  ?  " 

"  I  have  none,"  said  Botha,  with  sad  unwilling- 
ness. "  This  is  the  best  I  have  on." 

"That?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Busby;  and  there  was 
a  pause.  "Nothing  better  than  that,  my  dear?" 

"  The  others  are  worse.     They  are  all  worn  out." 

A  heavy  step  was  heard  coming  up  the  stair 
at  this  moment.  It  reached  the  landing  place. 

"  Mr.  Busby — "  cried  the  voice  of  his  wife,  a  lit- 
tle uplifted,  "  don't  come  in  here — I  am  engaged." 

"  Very  well,  my  dear,"  came  answer  in  a  husky, 
rough  voice,  and  the  step  passed  on. 

""  The  first  thing  is  a  school  dress,"  Mrs.  Busby 
proceeded.  "Antoinette,  fetch  that  purple  poplin 
of  yours,  that  you  wore  last  winter,  and  let  us  see 
if  that  would  not  do,  for  a  while  at  least,  till  some- 
thing can  be  made." 

Nothing  that  fits  her  can  fit  me,  thought  Botha; 
but  with  some  self-command  she  kept  her  thoughts 
to  herself.  Antoinette  brought  the  dress  in  ques- 
tion and  held  it  up,  chuckling. 

"It's  about  six  inches  too  short,  I  should  say, 
and  wouldn't  meet  round  the  waist  by  three  at 
least." 


MRS.  BUSBY'S  HOUSE.  263 

"Try  it  on,  Botha." 

Very  unwillingly  Rotha  did  as  she  was  told. 
Mrs.  Busby  pulled  and  twitched  and  stroked  the 
dress  here  and  there. 

"  It  is  a  little  too  short.     Could  be  let  out." 

"Then  the  marks  of  the  gathers  would  shew, 
mamma." 

"  That  could  be  hidden  by  a  basque." 

"  There  isn't  much  stuff  left  to  make  a  basque. 
Miss  Hubbell  cut  it  all  up  for  the  trimming." 

"  It  could  be  made  to  do  for  a  few  days.  I  am 
anxious  that  Rotha  should  lose  no  time  in  begin- 
ning school.  See,  it  is  November  now." 

All  this  was  extremely  distasteful  to  the  subject 
of  it.  She  knew  right  well  that  her  cousin's  dress 
could  never  be  made  to  look  as  if  it  belonged  to 
her,  unless  it  were  wholly  taken  to  pieces  and  put 
together  again;  neither  was  the  stuff  of  the  dress 
very  clean,  and  the  trimmings  had  the  forlorn, 
jaded  look  of  a  thing  which  has  been  worn  to 
death.  The  notion  of  appearing  in  it  revolted  her- 
unbearably. 

"  Aunt  Serena,"  she  said,  "  I  would  just  as  lief 
wear  my  old  dress,  if  you  don't  mind.  It  would 
do  as  well  as  this,  and  be  no  trouble." 

"  Well — "  said  Mrs.  Busby;  "  it  would  take  some 
time,  certainly,  to  fit  Antoinette's  to  you;  perhaps 
that  is  the  best  way ;  and  it  is  only  for  a  day  or 
two;  it  wouldn't  matter  much.  Well,  then  you 
may  take  these  things  away,  Rotha,  and  put  them 
by." 


264  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Where  ?  "  said  Rotha.     "  In  my  trunk  ?  " 

"  Yes,  for  the  present     That  will  do." 

Rotha  carried  her  muslins  up  stairs  again,  and 
had  some  ado  not  to  sit  down  and  cry.  But  she 
would  not,  and  fought  the  weakness  successfully 
down,  appearing  before  her  aunt  again  in  a  few 
minutes  with  an  imperturbable  exterior.  Which 
she  was  able  to  maintain  about  ten  minutes. 

Antoinette  was  dressing  for  dinner;  dressing  in 
front  of  her  mother's  fire;  making  herself  rather 
striking  in  a  blue  silk,  over  which  her  long  curl- 
ing fair  hair  tumbled  as  over  a  pretty  foil.  Mrs. 
Busby  also  was  putting  herself  in  order.  Rotha 
looked  on.  Presently  the  dinner  bell  rang. 

"I'll  send  you  up  your  dinner,  Rotha,"  Mrs. 
Busby  said,  turning  to  her  niece.  "Till  we  get 
some  gowns  made  for  you,  you  must  keep  in  hid- 
ing. I'll  send  it  up  to  you  here,  hot  and  nice." 

Rotha  said  not  one  word,  but  two  flames  shot 
into  her  cheeks,  and  from  her  dark  eyes  flared 
•two  such  lightnings,  that  Mrs.  Busby  absolutely 
shrank  back,  and  did  not  meet  those  eyes  again 
while  she  remained  in  the  room.  But  in  that  one 
moment  aunt  and  niece  had  taken  their  posi- 
tion towards  each  other,  and  what  is  more,  recog- 
nized it. 

"  I  shall  have  my  hands  full  with  that  girl,"  Mrs. 
Busby  muttered  as  she  went  down  stairs.  "Did 
you  see  how  she  looked  at  me  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  know  she  could  look  so,"  replied  An- 
toinette. "  Isn't  she  a  regular  spitfire  ?  " 


MRS.  BUSBY'S  HOUSE.  265 

"I  shall  know  how  to  manage  her,"  Mrs.  Busby 
said,  with  her  mouth  set.  "  She  is  not  at  all  like 
her  mother." 

Kotha,  left  in  the  dressing  room,  sat  down  and 
laid  her  head  on  her  arms  on  the  table.  Wrath 
and  indignation  were  boiling  within  her.  The 
girl  dimly  felt  more  than  her  reason  could  as  yet 
gi'asp;  somewhat  sinister  which  ran  through  all 
her  aunt's  manner  towards  her  and  had  undoubt- 
edly called  forth  this  last  regulation.  What  did 
it  mean?  So  she  could  go  to  school  in  her  old 
dress  and  be  seen  by  a  hundred  strange  eyes,  but 
might  not  sit  at  the  table  with  her  aunt's  family 
and  take  her  dinner  in  their  company !  And  this 
was  the  very  dress  in  which  she  had  gone  to  the 
Park  with  Mr.  Digby  more  than  once.  He  had  not 
minded  it.  And  here  there  was  nobody  that  had 
not  seen  it  already,  except  Mr.  Busby. 

Poor  Rotha's  heart,  when  once  a  passion  of  dis- 
pleasure seized  it,  was  like  the  seething  pot  in 
Ezekiel's  vision.  She  was  helpless  to  stay  the  out- 
pour of  anger  and  pride  and  grief  and  contempt 
and  mortification,  every  one  of  which  in  turn  came 
uppermost  and  took  forms  of  utterance  in  her  im- 
agination. She  had  a  firm  determination  to  follow 
Mr.  Digby's  teaching  and  example ;  but  for  the  pres- 
ent she  was  alone,  and  the  luxury  of  passion  might 
storm  as  it  would.  Upon  this  state  of  things  came 
the  dinner,  borne  by  the  hands  of  Lesbia,  who  was 
a  very  sable  serving  maid ;  otherwise  very  sharp. 
She  set  the  tray  on  the  table.  Rotha  lifted  a  white 


266  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

face  and  fiery  eyes,  and  glared  at  it  and  at  her. 
Gladly  would  she  have  sent  it  all  down  again ;  but 
she  was  hungry,  and  the  tray  steamed  a  pleasant 
savour  towards  her. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Eotha,  with  the  courtesy  she 
had  learned  of  her  friend. 

"  Would  you  like  anything  else  ?  "  the  girl  asked 
with  an  observing  look. 

"  Nothing  else,  thank  you." 

"  Why  aint  miss  down  stairs  with  the  rest  ?  " 

"  I  couldn't  go  down  to-day.  That  will  do,  thank 
you." 

Lesbia  withdrew,  and  Rotha  mustered  her  viands. 
A  glass  of  water  and  a  piece  of  bread,  very  nicely 
arranged ;  a  plate  with  hot  potatoes,  turnips  mashed, 
beets,  and  three  small  shrimps  fried. 

Eotha  cleared  the  board,  and  found  the  fish  very 
small.  By  and  by  came  up  Lesbia  with  a  piece  of 
apple  pie.  She  took  the  effect  of  the  empty  dishes. 

"  Did  miss  have  enough  ?  " 

"  It  will  do  very  well,  thank  you,"  said  Rotha, 
attacking  the  piece  of  pie,  which  was  also  small. 

"  Didn't  you  want  a  bit  of  the  mutton  ?  " 

"  Mutton  ! "  exclaimed  Rotha,  and  again  an  angry 
colour  shewed  itself  in  her  cheeks. 

"Roast  mutton  and  jelly  and  sweet  potatoes. 
You  hadn't  only  fish,  had  ye  ?  Don't  ye  like  yaller 
potatoes  ?  Car'lina  potatoes  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  like  them,"  said  Rotha  indifferently. 

N.  B.  She  had  eaten  them  but  a  few  times  in  her 
life,  and  thought  them  a  prime  delicacy. 


MRS.  BUSBY'S  HOUSE.  267 

"  I'll  bring  you  some  if  you  like,  and  some  of  the 
meat." 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Eotha,  finishing  her  pie 
and  depositing  that  plate  with  the  rest. 

"You'll  have  time  enough,"  said  Lesbia  sym- 
pathizingly.  "They  won't  come  up  stairs;  they 
stays  down  to  see  company." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Kotha  again ;  but  a  new 
pang  seized  her.  Company !  Mr.  Dig-by  would  be 
company.  What  if  he  should  come  ? 

Lesbia  went  off  with  the  tray,  after  casting  sev- 
eral curious  glances  at  the  new  comer,  whom  she 
had  heard  talked  of  enough  to  give  her  several 
clues.  Kotha  was  left  in  the  darkening  dressing 
room ;  for  the  afternoon  had  come  to  its  short  No- 
vember end. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

NOT  DRESSED. 

MR.  DIGBY  did  not  come  that  evening.     Next 
evening  he  did.     He  came  early,  just  as  the 
family  had  finished  dinner.     Mrs.  Busby  welcomed 
him  with  outstretched  hand  and  a  bland  smile. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Southwode,"  she 
said,  before  he  had  time  to  begin  anything.  "  I  want 
to  know  what  you  think  of  this  proposition  to  open 
picture  galleries  and  libraries  to  the  people  on 
Sunday?" 

"  The  arguments  for  it  are  plausible." 
"  Certainly  plausible.     What  do  you  think  ?  " 
"  It  is  of  no  consequence,  is  it,  what  any  individ- 
ual thinks?" 

"Why  yes,  as  it  seems  to  me.     By  comparing 
views  and  the  reasons  given  in  support  of  the  views, 
one  may  hope  to  attain  some  sound  conclusion." 
u  Is  it  a  matter  for  reason  to  consider  ?  " 
Mrs.  Busby  opened  her  eyes.     "  Is  not  everything 
that,  Mr.  Southwode  ?  " 

"  I  should  answer  '  no,'  if  I  answered." 
"  Please  answer,  because  I  am  very  much  in  ear- 
nest; and  I  like  to  drive  every  question  to  the  bot- 
tom.    Give  me  an  instance  to  the  contrary." 
(268) 


NOT  DRESSED.  269 

"When  you  tell  Miss  Antoinette,  for  example, 
to  put  on  india  rubbers  when  she  goes  out  in  the 
wet,  is  she  to  exercise  her  reason  upon  the  thickness 
of  the  soles  of  her  boots  ?  " 

"Yes,"  cried  the  young  lady  referred  to;  "of 
course  I  am  !  India  rubbers  are  horrid  things  any- 
how; do  you  think  I  am  going  to  put  them  on  with 
boots  an  inch  thick  ?  " 

Mr.  South  wode  turned  his  eyes  upon  her  with 
one  of  his  grave  smiles.  Mrs.  Busby  seemed  to 
ponder  the  subject. 

"Is  it  raining  to-night,  Mr.  Southwode?"  An- 
toinette went  on. 

"Yes." 

"  How  provoking !  then  I  can't  go  out.  Mr. 
Southwode,  you  never  took  me  anywhere,  to  see 
anything." 

"True,  I  believe,"  he  answered.  "How  could 
I  ask  Mrs.  Busby  to  trust  me  with  the  care  of  such 
an  article  ?  " 

"  What  '  such  an  article '  ?  " 

"Subject  to  damage;  in  which  case  the  damage 
would  be  very  great." 

"  I  am  not  subject  to  damage.  I  never  get  cold 
or  anything.  Mr.  Southwode,  won't  you  take  me, 
some  night,  to  see  the  Minstrels  ?  " 

"They  are  not  much  to  see." 

"  But  to  hear,  they  are.  Won't  you,  Mr.  South- 
wode ?  1  am  crazy  to  hear  them,  and  mamma  won't 
take  me ;  and  papa  never  goes  anywhere  but  to  his 
office  and  to  court ;  won't  you,  Mr.  Southwode  ?  " 


270  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"Perhaps;  if  Mrs.  Busby  will  honour  me  so 
much." 

"O  mamma  will  trust  you,  I  know.  Then  tho 
first  clear  evening,  Mr.  Southwode  ? — the  first  that 
you  are  at  leisure  ?  " 

Without  answering  her  he  turned  to  Mrs.  Busby. 

"  How  is  Rotha  ?  " 

"Very  well!"  the  lady  answered  smoothly. 

"  Shall  I  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  ?  " 

"I  am  afraid,  not  to-night.  She  was  unable  to 
come  down  stairs  this  afternoon,  and  so  took  her 
dinner  alone.  Next  time,  I  hope,  she  will  be  able" 
to  see  you." 

Mr.  Digby  privately  wondered  what  the  detain- 
ing cause  could  be,  but  thought  it  most  discreet 
not  to  inquire ;  at  least,  not  in  this  quarter.  "  Is 
the  school  question  decided?"  he  therefore  went 
on  quietly. 

"  Why  no.  I  have  been  debating  the  pros,  and 
cons. ;  in  which  process  one  is  very  apt  to  get  con- 
fused. As  soon  as  one  makes  up  one's  mind  to 
forego  certain  advantages  in  favour  of  certain 
others,  the  rejected  ones  immediately  rise  up  in 
fresh  colours  of  allurement  before  the  mind,  and 
disturb  one's  judgment,  and  the  whole  calculation 
has  to  be  gone  over  again." 

"The  choice  lies  between — ?" 

"Mrs.  Mulligan,  Miss  Wordsworth,  and  Mrs. 
Mowbray,  have  the  highest  name  in  the  city." 

"And  may  I  know  the  supposed  counter  ad- 
vantages and  disadvantages  ?  " 


NOT  DRESSED.  271 

"  I'll  tell  you,  Mr.  Southwode,"  said  Antoinette. 
"  At  Mrs.  Mulligan's  you  learn  French  and  manners. 
At  Miss  Wordsworth's  you  learn  arithmetic  and 
spelling.  At  Mrs.  Mowbray's  you  learn  Latin  and 
the  Catechism." 

Mr.  Southwode  looked  to  Mrs.  Busby. 

"  That's  rather  a  caricature,"  said  the  lady  smil- 
ing; "but  it  has  some  truth.  I  think  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray's  is  quite  as  fashionable  a  school  as  Mrs. 
Mulligan's.  It  is  quite  as  dear." 

"  Is  it  thought  desirable,  that  it  should  be  fash- 
ionable ?  " 

"Certainly;  for  that  shews  what  is  public  opin- 
ion. Besides,  it  secures  one  against  undesirable 
companions  for  a  girl.  Both  at  Mrs.  Mulligan's  and 
Mrs.  Mowbray's  the  pupils  come  from  the  very  best 
families,  both  South  and  North.  There  is  a  certain 
security  in  that." 

Mr.  Southwode  allowed  the  conversation  pres- 
ently to  take  another  turn,  and  soon  took  his  leave. 

Rotha  had  watched  and  listened  from  the  upper 
hall ;  had  heard  him  come  in,  and  then  had  waited 
in  an  ecstasy  of  impatient  eagerness  till  she  should 
be  sent  for.  She  could  hear  the  murmur  of  voices 
in  the  parlour;  but  otherwise  the  house  was  omi- 
nously quiet.  No  doors  opening,  no  bell  to  call  the 
servant,  no  stir  at  all;  until  the  parlour  door  opened 
and  Mr.  Digby  came  out.  Rotha  was  in  a  very 
agony,  half  ready  to  rush  down,  unsummoned,  and 
see  him;  and  yet  held  back  by  a  shy  feeling  of 
proud  reserve.  He  could  ask  for  her  if  he  had  wanted 


272  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

her,  she  thought  bitterly;  and  while  she  lingered 
he  had  put  on  his  overshoes  and  was  gone.  Rotha 
crept  up  stairs  to  her  own  room,  feeling  desper- 
ately disappointed.  That  her  aunt  might  have 
made  excuses  to  keep  her  up  stairs,  she  divined; 
but  the  thought  put  her  in  a  rage.  She  had  to  sit 
a  long  while  looking  out  of  her  window  at  the 
lights  twinkling  here  and  there  through  the  rain, 
before  the  fever  in  her  blood  and  her  brain  had 
cooled  down  enough  to  let  her  go  to  bed  and 
to  sleep. 

The  next  day  she  began  her  school  experience. 
The  intervening  day  had  been  used  by  Mrs.  Busby 
to  make  a  call  upon  Mrs.  Mowbray,  in  which  she 
explained  that  she  had  an  orphan  niece  left  under 
her  care,  for  whom  she  much  desired  the  training 
and  the  discipline  of  Mrs.  Mowbray's  excellent 
school.  The  girl  had  had  no  advantages;  her 
mother  had  been  ill  and  the  child  neglected ;  she 
supposed  Mrs.  Mowbray  would  find  that  she  knew 
next  to  nothing  of  all  that  she  ought  to  know. 
So  it  was  arranged  that  Rotha  should  accompany 
her  cousin  the  very  next  morning,  and  make  her 
beginning  in  one  of  the  younger  classes. 

Rotha  went  in  her  old  grey  dress.  The  walk 
was  not  long.  Antoinette  stopped  at  the  area  gate 
of  a  house  in  a  fine  open  street. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  said  Rotha. 

"  Here.     This  is  the  place." 

"  This  ?  Why  it  is  a  very  handsome  house," 
said  Rotha.  "  As  good  as  yours." 


NOT  DRESSED.  273 

"  Of  course  it  is  handsome,"  Antoinette  replied. 
"  Do  you  think  my  mother  would  let  me  go  to  a 
shabby  place.  Handsome !  of  course  it  is.  Come 
down  this  way;  we  don't  ring  the  bell." 

What  a  new  world  it  was  to  Rotha!  In  the 
lower  hall  the  girls  took  off  bonnets  and  wraps, 
hanging  them  up  on  hooks  arranged  there.  Then 
Antoinette  took  her  up  stairs,  up  a  second  flight  of 
stairs,  through  halls  and  stairways  which  renewed 
Rotha's  astonishment.  Was  this  a  school?  All 
the  arrangements  seemed  like  those  of  an  elegant 
private  home;  soft  carpet  was  on  the  stairs,  beau- 
tiful engravings  hung  on  the  walls.  The  school 
rooms  filled  the  second  floor;  they  were  already 
crowded,  it  seemed  to  Rotha,  with  rows  and  ranks 
of  scholars  of  all  sizes,  from  ten  years  old  up.  An- 
toinette and  she,  being  later  than  the  rest,  slipped 
into  the  first  seats  they  could  find,  near  the  door. 

There  was  deep  silence  and  great  ordei',  and  then 
Rotha  heard  a  voice  in  the  next  room  beginning  to 
read  a  chapter  in  the  Bible.  The  sound  of  the  voice 
struck  her  and  made  her  wish  to  get  a  sight  of  the 
reader;  but  that  was  impossible,  for  a  bit  of  parti- 
tion wall  hid  her  and  indeed  most  of  the  room  in 
which  she  was  from  Rotha's  view.  So  Rotha's  at- 
tention concentrated  itself  upon  what  she  could 
see.  The  pleasant,  bright  apartments ;  the  desks  be- 
fore which  sat  so  many  well-dressed  and  well-look- 
ing girls;  ah,  they  were  very  well  dressed,  and 
many  of  them,  to  her  fancy,  very  richly  dressed;  as 
for  the  faces,  she  found  there  was  the  usual  diver- 


274  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

sity.  But  what  would  anybody  think  of  a  girl 
coming  among  them  so  very  shabby  and  meanly 
attired  as  she  was  ?  If  she  had  known —  However, 
self-consciousness  was  not  one  of  Rotha's  troubles, 
and  soon  in  her  admiration  of  the  maps  and  pic- 
tures on  the  walls  she  almost  forgot  her  own  poor 
little  person.  She  was  aware  that  after  the  read- 
ing came  a  prayer;  but  though  she  knelt  as  others 
knelt,  I  am  bound  to  say  very  little  of  the  sense 
of  the  words  found  its  way  to  her  mind. 

After  that  the  girls  separated.  Eotha  was  intro- 
duced by  her  cousin  to  a  certain  Miss  Blodgett,  one 
of  the  teachers,  under  whose  care  she  was  placed,  and 
by  whom  she  was  taken  to  a  room  apart  and  set  down 
to  her  work  along  with  a  class  of  some  forty  girls, 
all  of  them  or  nearly  all,  younger  than  she  was. 
And  here,  for  a  number  of  days,  Rotha's  school  life 
went  on  monotonously.  She  was  given  little  to  do 
that  she  could  not  do  easily;  she  was  assigned  no 
lessons  that  were  not  already  familiar ;  she  was  put 
to  acquire  no  knowledge  that  she  did  not  already 
possess.  She  got  sight  of  nobody  but  Miss  Blod- 
gett and  the  girls ;  for  every  morning  she  was  sure 
to  be  crowded  into  that  same  corner  at  school-open- 
ing, where  she  could  not  look  at  Mrs.  Mowbray; 
nobody  else  wanted  that  place,  so  they  gave  it  to 
her;  and  Rotha  was  never  good  at  self-assertion, 
unless  at  such  times  as  her  blood  was  up.  She  took 
the  place  meekly.  But  school  was  very  tiresome  to 
her;  and  it  gave  her  nothing  to  distract  her 
thoughts  from  her  troubles  at  home. 


NOT  DRESSED.  275 

Those  were  threefold,  to  take  them  in  detail. 
She  wore  still  the  old  dress;  she  was  consequently 
still  kept  up  stairs;  and  it  followed  also  of  course 
that  Mr.  Digby  came  and  went  and  she  had  no 
sight  of  him.  It  happened  thus. 

Several  days  he  allowed  to  pass  without  calling 
again.  Not  that  he  forgot  Rotha,  or  was  careless 
about  her;  but  he  partly  knew  his  adversary  and 
judged  this  course  wise,  for  Rotha's  sake.  His 
first  visit  had  been  on  Tuesday  evening;  he  let  a 
week  go  by,  and  then  he  went  again.  Mrs.  Busby 
was  engaged  with  other  visitors ;  he  had  to  post- 
pone the  inquiries  he  wished  to  make.  Mean- 
while Antoinette  attacked  him. 

"Mr.  South wode, — now  it  is  a  nice  evening, 
and  you  promised; — will  you  take  me  to  the  Min- 
strels?" 

"  I  always  keep  my  promises." 

"  Then  shall  we  go  ?  "  with  great  animation. 

"  Did  I  say  I  would  go  to-night  ?  " 

"No;  but  to-night  is  a  good  time;  as  good  as 
any.  Ah,  Mr.  Southwode !  let  us  go.  You'll 
never  take  me,  if  you  do  not  to-night." 

"  What  would  Mrs.  Busby  say  ?  " 

"0  she'd  say  yes.  Of  course  she'd  say  yes. 
Mamma  always  says  yes  when  I  ask  her  things. 
Mamma!  I  say,  mamma !  listen  to  me  one  moment; 
may  I  go  with  Mr.  Southwode  ?  " 

One  moment  Mrs.  Busby  turned  her  head  from 
the  friend  with  whom  she  was  talking,  looked  at 
her  daughter,  and  said,  "  Yes  " ;  then  turned  again 


276  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

and  went  on  with  what  she  was  saying.  Antoi- 
nette jumped  up. 

"And  bring  your  cousin  too,"  said  Mr.  South- 
wode  as  she  was  flying  off.  Antoinette  stopped. 

"  Rotha  ?     0  she  can't  go." 

"  Why  can  she  not  go  ?  " 

"She  has  got  nothing  ready  to  wear  out  yet. 
Mamma  hasn't  had  time  to  get  the  things  and  have 
'em  made.  She  couldn't  go." 

"She  might  wear  what  she  wore  when  I  brought 
her  here,"  Mr.  Digby  suggested.  Antoinette  shook 
her  head. 

"  0  no !  Mamma  wouldn't  let  her  go  out  so.  She 
couldn't,  now  that  she  is  under  her  care,  you  know. 
Her  things  are  not  fit  at  all." 

"Will  you  have  the  kindness  to  send  word  to 
your  cousin  that  I  should  like  to  see  her  for  a  few 
minutes  ?  " 

"  0  she  can't  come  down  ?  " 

"Why  not?" 

"O  she's  in  no  condition.  Mamma — mamma! 
Mr.  Southwode  wants  to  see  Eotha." 

"  I  am  very  sorry ! "  said  Mrs.  Busby  smoothly 
and  calmly,  turning  again  from  the  discourse  she 
was  carrying  on, — "  I  have  sent  her  to  bed  with  a 
tumbler  of  hot  lemonade. " 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"A  slight  cold — nothing  troublesome,  I  hope; 
but  I  thought  best  to  take  it  in  time.  I  do  not 
want  her  studies  to  be  interrupted." 

Mr.  Southwode  was  powerless  against  this  an- 


NOT  DRESSED.  277 

nouncement,  and  thought  his  own  thoughts,  till 
Mrs.  Busby  drew  him  into  the  discussion  which 
just  then  engaged  her.  Upon  this  busy  talk  pres- 
ently came  Antoinette,  hatted  and  cloaked,  and 
drawing  on  her  gloves.  Stood  and  waited. 

"Mr.  South wode — I  am  ready,"  she  said,  as  he 
did  not  attend  to  her. 

"For  the  Minstrels?"  said  he,  with  that  very 
unconcerned  manner  of  his.  "  But,  Miss  Antoi- 
nette, would  not  your  cousin  like  to  go  ?  " 

"  She  cant,  you  know.  Where  are  your  ears,  Mr. 
South  wode?  Mamma  explained  to  you  that  she 
was  in  bed." 

"  Then  do  you  not  agree  with  me,  that  it  would 
be  the  kindest  thing  to  defer  our  own  pleasure 
until  she  can  share  it  ?  " 

Antoinette  flushed  and  coloured,  and  tears  of  dis- 
appointment came  into  her  eyes.  •  A  little  tinge 
rose  in  Mrs.  Busby's  cheeks  too. 

"  Go  and  take  your  cloak  off,"  she  said  coldly. 
"  And  Antoinette,  you  had  better  see  that  your  les- 
sons for  to-morrow  morning  are  all  ready." 

Mr.  Southwode  thereupon  took  his  departure. 
If  he  had  known  what  eyes  and  ears  were  strained 
to  get  knowledge  of  him  at  that  moment,  I  think 
he  would  have  stood  his  ground  and  taken  some 
very  decided  measures.  But  he  could  not  see  from 
the  lighted  hall  below  up  into  the  darkness  of  the 
third  story,  even'  if  it  could  have  occurred  to  him 
to  try.  There  stood  however  a  white  figure,  lean- 
ing over  the  balusters,  and  very  well  aware  whose 


278  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

steps  were  going  through  the  hall  and  out  at  the 
front  door.  Poor  Kotha  had  obeyed  orders  and 
undressed  and  gone  to  bed,  though  she  insisted 
her  throat  was  only  a  very  little  irritated;  and 
neither  the  one  fact  nor  the  other  had  prevented 
her  from  jumping  tip  to  listen  when  the  door  bell 
rang,  and  again  when  steps  she  knew  came  out 
from  the  parlour.  Again  he  had  been  here,  and 
again  she  had  missed  him.  Of  course  he  could  do 
nothing  when  told  that  she  was  in  bed  with  a  cold. 
Rotha  went  back  into  her  room  and  stood  trembling, 
not  with  a  chill,  though  the  night  was  cold  enough, 
but  with  a  fever  of  rage  and  desperation.  She 
opened  the  window  and  poured  out  the  lemonade 
which  she  had  not  touched;  she  shut  the  window 
and  wrung  her  hands.  She  seemed  to  be  in  a  net, 
in  a  cage,  in  a  prison ;  and  the  walls  of  her  prison 
were  so  invisible  that  she  could  not  get  at  them  to 
burst  them.  She  would  write  to  Mr.  Digby,  only 
she  did  not  know  his  address.  Would  he  not  write 
to  her,  perhaps?  Rotha  Was  in  a  kind  of  fury  of 
impatience  and  indignation;  this  thought  served 
to  give  her  a  little  stay  to  hold  by. 

And  a  letter  did  come  for  her  the  very  next  even- 
ing; and  Rotha's  eyes  never  saw  it,  nor  did  her 
ears  hear  of  it. 

Neither  did  her  new  dresses  come  to  light;  and 
evening  after  evening  her  condition  was  not 
changed.  She  was  prisoner  up  stairs  with  her 
books  and  studies,  which  did  not  occupy  her;  and 
hour  after  hour  Rotha  stood  in  the  hall  and  listened, 


NOT  DRESSED.  279 

or  sat  watching.  She  could  not  hear  Mr.  Digby's 
voice  again.  She  wondered  what  had  power  to 
detain  him.  With  craving  anxiety  and  the  strain 
of  hope  and  fear,  Eotha's  cheek  began  to  grow 
pale.  It  was  getting  at  last  beyond  endurance. 
She  went  through  her  school  duties  mechanically, 
thinking  of  something  else,  yet  doing  all  that  was 
required  of  her ;  for,  as  I  said,  it  was  ground  that 
she  had  gone  over  already.  She  queried  with  her- 
self whether  Mr.  Southwode  might  not  come  even 
to  the  school  to  seek  her;  it  seemed  so  impossible 
that  she  should  be  utterly  kept  from  the  sight  of 
him.  All  this  while  Eotha  never  spoke  his  name 
before  her  aunt  or  cousin ;  never  asked  a  question 
about  him  or  his  visits.  By  what  subtle  instinct  it 
is  hard  to  tell,  she  knew  the  atmosphere  of  the  house 
was  not  favourable  to  the  transmission  of  those 
particular  sounds. 

One  thing,  one  day,  had  made  a  break  in  her 
gloomy  thoughts.  She  was  in  her  class,  in  the 
special  room  appropriated  to  that  class,  busy  as 
usual;  when  the  door  opened  and  a  lady  came  in 
whom  Eotha  had  not  fairly  seen  before,  yet  whom 
she  at  once  recognized  for  what  she  was,  the  head 
of  the  establishment.  Eotha's  eyes  were  fascinated. 
It  was  a  tall  -figure,  very  stately  and  dignified  as 
well  as  graceful ;  handsomely  and  carefully  dressed ; 
but  Eotha  took  in  that  fact  without  knowing  what 
the  lady  wore,  she  was  so  engrossed  with  the  face 
and  manner  of  this  vision.  The  manner  was  at 
once  gracious  and  commanding;  courteous  exceed- 


280  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

ingly,  while  the  air  of  decision  and  the  tone  of  au- 
thority were  well  marked.  But  the  face !  It  was 
wonderfully  lovely ;  with  fair  features  and  kind  eyes ; 
the  head  sat  well  upon  the  shoulders,  and  the  hair 
was  arranged  with  very  rare  grace  around  the  del- 
icate head.  So  elegant  a  head  one  very  rarely  sees, 
as  was  Mrs.  Mowbray's,  although  the  dressing  of 
the  hair  was  as  simple  as  possible.  The  hair  was 
merely  twisted  up  in  a  loose  knot  or  coil  at  the 
back;  the  effect  was  what  not  one  in  a  thousand 
can  reach  with  all  the  arts  of  the  hair-dresser. 
This  lovely  apparition  paused  a  minute  or  two  be- 
fore Miss  Blodgett,  while  some  matter  of  business 
was  discussed;  then  the  observant  eyes  came  to 
the  young  stranger  in  the  class,  and  a  few  steps 
brought  them  close  up  to  her. 

"This  is  Miss  Carpenter,  isn't  it? — yes.  How 
do  you  do,  my  dear."  She  took  Rotha's  hand 
kindly.  "  How  is  your  aunt,  Mrs.  Busby  ?  " 

Rotha  answered.  Perhaps  those  watchful  eyes 
saw  that  there  was  no  pleasure  in  the  answer. 

"  Your  cousin — she  is  in  Miss  Graham's  class,  is 
she  not?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Well,  I  hope  you  have  made  some  friends  here. 
Miss  Doolittle,  won't  you  be  helpful  to  Miss  Car- 
penter if  you  can  ?  she  is  a  stranger  among  us. — 
Good  morning,  young  ladies!  " 

The  lady  swept  away  from  the  room;  but  all 
that  day  there  hovered  in  Rotha's  thoughts  a  vision 
of  beauty  and  grace  and  dignity,  an  accent  of  kind- 


NOT  DRESSED.  281 

ness,  a  manner  of  love  and  authority,  which  utterly 
fascinated  and  wholly  captivated  her.  It  was  quite 
a  sweetener  of  that  day's  dry  work.  She  looked  to 
see  the  vision  come  again  the  next  day,  and  the 
next ;  in  vain ;  but  Eotha  now  knew  the  voice ;  and 
not  a  word  was  let  fall  from  those  lips,  in  reading 
or  prayer,  at  the  school  opening  now,  that  she  did 
not  listen  to. 

Days  went  on.  At  last  one  day  Mrs.  Busby  said 
it  was  no  use  to  wait  any  longer  for  the  mantua- 
makers;  Eotha  might  as  well  come  down  and  have 
her  dinner  with  the  family.  She  could  not  stay 
in  the  drawing  room  of  course,  until  she  was  de- 
cently dressed;  but  she  might  as  well  come  to 
dinner.  Rotha  could  not  understand  why  so  much 
could  not  have  been  granted  from  the  first;  there 
was  nobody  at  the  dinner  table  but  her  aunt  and 
cousin  and  Mr.  Busby.  Mr.  Busby  was  a  very  tall, 
thin  man,  always  busy  with  newspapers  or  sheets 
of  manuscript;  whose  "Good  morning,  my  dear!" 
in  that  peculiar  husky  voice  of  his,  was  nearly  all 
Rotha  ever  heard  him  say.  He  took  his  breakfast, 
or  his  dinner,  and  went  off  to  his  study  at  once. 

Rotha  climbed  the  stairs  to  Mrs.  Busby's  dress- 
ing room,  after  the  meal  was  over,  and  sat  down 
to  think.  She  was  consuming  herself  in  impa- 
tience and  fretting.  By  and  by  Lesbia  came  in 
to  see  to  the  fire. 

"  Lesbia,''  said  Rotha  with  sudden  resolution, 
"  will  you  do  something  for  me  ?  "  She  looked  at 
the  girl  eagerly. 


282  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Mebbe,  miss.     Like  to  know  what  'tis,  fust." 

"It  is  only,  to  tell  me  something,"  said  Rotha 
lowering  her  voice. 

"  Aint  nothin'  harder  'n  to  tell  things,"  said  the 
girl.  "That's  the  hardest  thing  I  know." 

"  It  isn't  hard,  if  you  are  willing." 

"  Don'  know  about  that.  Well,  fire  away,  Miss 
Rotha.  What  you  want  ?  " 

Rotha  went  first  to  the  door  and  shut  it.  Then 
came  back  and  stood  by  the  table  where  Lesbia 
was  lighting  the  gas  drop. 

"  Lesbia,  I  want  you  to  tell  me —  You  always 
open  the  door,  don't  you  ?  " 

"'Cept  when  I  aint  there." 

"  But  in  the  evenings  you  do  ?  " 

"  I'm  pretty  likely  to,  miss — if  it  aint  my  even- 
ing out." 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me—"  Rotha  lowered  her 
voice  to  a  whisper, — "  if  Mr.  South wode  has  been 
here  lately?" 

Lesbia  stood  silent,  considering. 

"  You  know  him  ?     You  know  Mr.  Southwode?  " 

"  He  brought  you  here  the  fust,  didn't  he  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Yes,  that  is  he.    When  was  he  here  last  ?  " 

"Don't  just  'member." 

"  But  about  when  ?  Two  weeks  or  three  weeks 
ago?" 

"  Well,  'pears  to  me  as  if  I'd  seen  him  later  'n 
that." 

"When,  Lesbia?     Oh  do  tell  me!  do  tell  me!" 

"  Why  he  aint  nothin'  particular  to  you,  is  he  ?  " 


NOT  DRESSED.  283 

"He  is  everything  to  me.  He  is  the  only  friend 
I  have  got  in  the  world.  When  "was  he  here, 
Lesbia?" 

"  He's  a  mighty  handsome  gentleman,  with  hair 
lighter  than  your'n,  and  a  mustaches  ?  " 

"Yes.  He  came  with  me  that  first  day.  Tell 
me,  Lesbia ! " 

"  But  Miss  Kotha,  I  can't  see  what  you  want  to 
know  fur  ? '' 

"Never  mind.  I  tell  you,  he  is  all  the  friend 
I  have  got;  and  I'm  afraid  something  is  wrong, 
because  I  don't  see  him." 

"  I  reckon  there  is,"  said  Lesbia,  not  reassuringly. 

"What?" 

"  Mrs.  Busby  will  kill  me." 

"  No,  I  shall  not  tell  her  you  told  me.  O  Lesbia, 
Lesbia,  speak,  speak  !  " 

Lesbia  glanced  at  the  girl  and  saw  her  intense 
excitement,  and  seemed  doubtful. 

"You'll  be  so  mad,  you'll  go  tellin'  the  fust 
thing,"  she  said. 

Kotha  sat  down,  in  silence  now,  and  gazed  in 
Lesbia's  face  with  her  own  growing  white.  Lesbia 
seemed  at  last  overcome. 

"  He  was  here  last  week,  and  he  was  here  this 
week,"  she  said. 

"  This  week ! — and  last  week  too.  What  day 
this  week,  Lesbia  ?  " 

"  This  here  is  Friday,  aint  it.  Blessed  if  I  kin 
keep  the  run  o'  the  days.  Let  us  see — Mr.  South- 
wode  was  here  the  last  time,  Tuesday." 


284  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Tuesday  ?     And  I  was  here  studying." 
"Then  you  don't  know?"   said   Lesbia  eyeing 
her.     "  He's  done  gone  away." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?     That  can't  be." 
"  He's  done  gone,  miss.     Sailed  Wednesday.     I 
heerd  'em  talking  about  it  at  dinner.     His  name 
was  in  the  list,  they  was  sayin';  in  the  papers." 
"  Sailed  Wednesday  ?     O  where  to,  Lesbia  ?  " 
"  Don'  know,  miss ;  some  place  Avhere  the  ships 
goes." 

"England?" 

"Mebbe.  I  doesn't  know  all  de  places  on  dis 
yere  arth." 

"  How  long  is  he  going  to  be  gone  ?  " 
"  Can't  tell  dat,  miss.  I  haint  heerd  nobody  say. 
La,  I  dare  say  he'll  come  back.  It's  as  easy  to 
come  as  to  go.  Folks  is  allays  goin'  and  comin'. 
But  if  you  tell  Mis'  Busby,  then  I've  done  gone 
and  lost  my  place,  Miss  Rotha." 

Kotha  stood  still  and  said  not  a  word  more.  But 
she  turned  so  white  that  Lesbia  looked  on  in  alarm, 
expecting  every  moment  she  -would  faint.  There 
was  no  faintness,  however.  Rotha  was  not  one 
of  those  who  lose  present  knowledge  of  misery  in 
the  weakness  of  a  swoon.  She  turned  white  and 
even  livid  in  the  intensity  of  passion,  the  fury 
of  rage  and  despair  which  held  her;  then,  knowing 
that  she  must  not  betray  Lesbia  and  that  accord- 
ingly she  must  not  meet  anybody's  eyes,  she  seized 
her  books  and  rushed  up  stairs  to  her  own  little 
room. 


NOT  DRESSED.  285 

It  was  dark  there,  but  so  much  darker  in  the 
child's  heart  that  she  never  noticed  that.  It  was 
cold,  yet  not  to  her,  for  in  her  soul  a  fire  was  burn- 
ing, hot  enough  to  dispense  with  material  warmth. 
She  never  missed  that.  But  the  walls  of  her  room 
did  seem  to  her  a  prison,  a  dreadful  prison,  from 
which  she  must  flee  if  there  were  any  place  to  flee 
to.  Had  her  only  refuge  failed  her  ?  Was  her  one 
heart's  treasure  lost  to  her  ?  Was  the  world  empty, 
and  all  gone?  The  bewilderment  of  it  almost 
equalled  the  pain.  Botha  held  her  head  in  both 
hands  and  tried  to  find  some  hope,  or  some  stay  for 
her  thoughts  and  for  her  feelings. 

She  charged  it  all  presently  with  the  certainty 
of  intuition  upon  her  aunt.  For  in  her  Rotha  had 
not  one  particle  of  trust.  She  had  received  at  her 
hands  no  unkind  treatment,  (what  was  the  matter 
with  the  mantua-makers,  though  ?)  she  had  heard 
from  her  lips  no  unkind  word;  yet  both  would  not 
have  put  such  a  distance  between  them  as  this  want 
of  trust  did.  It  was  Rotha's  nature  to  despise  where 
she  could  not  trust;  and  here  unhappily  there  was 
also  the  complication  of  fear.  Somehow,  she  was 
sure,  her  aunt  had  done  it;  she  had  prevented  Mr. 
Digby  from  seeing  her;  and  now  he  was  away,  and 
how  could  she  tell  but  cunning  arrangements  would 
be  potent  enough  to  keep  him  from  seeing  her  ever- 
more? Any  reason  for  such  machinations  Rotha 
indeed  failed  to  divine ;  why  her  aunt  should  desire 
to  keep  them  apart,  was  a  mere  mystery ;  all  the 
same,  she  had  done  it;  and  the  chances  were  she 


286  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

would  choose  to  do  it  permanently.  Mr.  Digby 
had  been  duped,  or  baffled  somehow;  else  he  would 
never  have  left  the  country  without  seeing  his 
charge.  She  did  not  know  before  that  Mr.  Digby 
could  be  duped,  or  baffled;  but  if  once  or  twice, 
why  not  again. 

She  would  write  to  him.  Ah,  she  had  not  his 
address,  that  he  was  to  have  given  her.  He  would 
write.  Yes,  but  somebody  else  would  get  the  letters. 
Rotha  was  of  anything  but  a  suspicious  disposition , 
yet  now  suspicion  after  suspicion  came  in  her 
mind.  The  possible  moving  cause  for  her  aunt's 
action  was  entirely  beyond  her  imagination;  the 
action  itself  and  the  drift  of  it  she  discerned.clearly. 
There  rose  in  her  a  furious  opposition  and  dislike 
towards  her  aunt,  a  storm  of  angry  abhorrence. 
And  yet,  she  was  in  Mrs.  Busby's  care,  under  her 
protection,  and  also — in  her  power.  Rotha  gnashed 
her  teeth,  mentally,  as  she  reviewed  the  situation. 
But  by  degrees  grief  overweighed  even  anger  and 
fear;  grief  so  cutting,  so  desolating,  so  crushing, 
as  the  girl  had  hardly  known  in  her  life  before ;  an 
agony  of  anguish  which  held  her  awake  till  late 
in  the  night;  till  feeling  and  sense  were  blunted 
with  exhaustion,  and  in  her  misery  she  slept. 

When  the  day  came,  Rotha  awaked  to  a  cold, 
dead  sense  of  the  state  of  things;  the  ashes  of  the 
fire  that  had  burned  so  fiercely  the  night  before ; 
desolate  and  dreary  as  the  ashes  of  a  fire  always 
are.  She  revolved  while  she  was  dressing  her  plan 
of  action.  She  must  have  certain  information  from 


NOT  DRESSED.  287 

Mrs.  Busby  herself.  She  was  certain  indeed  of  what 
she  had  heard ;  but  she  must  hear  it  from  somebody 
besides  Lesbia,  and  she  must  not  betray  Lesbia. 
She  thought  it  all  over,  and  went  down  stairs 
trembling  in  the  excitement  and  the  pain  of  what 
she  had  to  do. 

It  was  winter  now  in  truth.  The  basement  room 
where  the  family  took  their  meals  in  ordinary,  was 
a  very  warm  and  comfortable  apartment;  hand- 
somely furnished;  only  Rotha  always  hated  it  for 
being  half  underground.  The  fire  was  burning 
splendidly ;  Mr.  Busby  sat  in  his  easy  chair  at  the 
side  of  the  hearth  next  the  light;  Mrs.  Busby  was 
at  the  table  preparing  breakfast.  Rotha  stood  by 
the  fire  and  thought  how  she  should  begin.  The 
sun  shone  very  bright  outside  the  windows.  But 
New  York  had  become  a  desert. 

"  Mr.  Busby,  will  you  come  to  the  table  ?  "  said 
his  wife.  "  Rotha,  I  am  going  to  see  about  your 
cloak  to-day." 

Rotha  could  not  say  "thank  you."  She  began 
to  eat,  for  form's  sake. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  get  her,  mother  ? " 
Antoinette  enquired. 

"  You  can  come  along  and  see." 

"  Aunt  Serena,"  said  Rotha,  trying  to  speak  un- 
concernedly, "  what  has  become  of  Mr.  Digby — Mr. 
Southwode,  I  mean." 

"I  do  not  know,  my  dear,"  the  lady  answered 
smoothly. 

"  Why  haven't  I  seen  him  ?  " 


288  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"My  dear,  you  have  not  seen  anybody.  Some 
day  I  hope  you  will  be  able ;  but  I  begin  to  despair 
of  the  dress-makers." 

"  If  my  tailor  served  me  so,  I  should  give  him 
up,"  said  Mr.  Busby's  quick,  husky  utterance. 

"  Yes,  papa,  but  you  wouldn't,  if  there  was  only 
one  tailor  you  liked." 

"Isn't  there  more  than  one  mantua-maker  for 
all  this  big  city?" 

"  My  dear,  Miss  Hubbell  suits  me,  and  is  uncom- 
monly reasonable,  for  the  quality  of  her  work ;  and 
she  has  so  much  custom,  we  cannot  get  her  without 
speaking  long  beforehand." 

"  Why  don't  you  speak,  then  ?  " 

"When  was  Mr.  Digby — Mr.  South wode — here, 
aunt  Serena  ?  "  Rotha  began  again. 

"A  few  nights  ago.  I  do  not  recollect.  Mr. 
Busby,  as  you  go  down  town  will  you  stop  at 
Dubois's  and  order  the  piano  tuner  ?  The  piano  is 
quite  out  of  tune.  And  I  wish  you  would  order 
me  a  bag  of  coffee,  if  you  say  you  can  get  it  more 
reasonably  at  your  down  town  place." 

"Very  well,  my  dear."  The  words  used  to 
amuse  Rotha,  they  rolled  out  so,  brisk  and  sharp, 
like  the  discharge  from  a  gun.  To-day  she  was 
impatient. 

"  Aunt  Serena,  I  have  been  wanting  to  see  Mr. 
South  wode  very  much." 

No  answer.  Mrs.  Busby  attended  to  her  break- 
fast as  if  she  did  not  hear. 

"  When  can  I  ?  "  Rotha  persisted. 


NOT  DRESSED.  289 

"  I  am  sure,  I  cannot  say.  Mr.  Busby,  I  will 
trouble  you  for  a  little  of  that  sausage." 

"  This  sausage  has  too  much  pepper  in  it,  mam- 
ma." 

"And  too  little  of  something  else,"  added  Mr. 
Busby. 

"Of  what,  Mr.  Busby?" 

"That  I  do  not  know,  my  dear;  it  belongs  to 
your  department." 

"  But  even  the  Chaldean  magicians  could  not  in- 
terpret the  dream  that  was  not  told  to  them,"  Mrs. 
Busby  suggested,  with  smiling  satisfaction.  "  How 
can  I  have  the  missing  quality  supplied,  if  you  can- 
not tell  me  what  it  is  you  miss  ?  " 

"  You  can  divine,  my  dear,  quite  as  well  as  the 
Chaldean  magicians." 

"Then  if  that  is  true,  aunt  Serena,"  Rotha  put 
in  desperately,  "  will  you  please  tell  me  where  Mr. 
Southwode  is  ?  " 

"  Her  divining  rod  is  not  long  enough  for 
that,"  said  Mr.  Busby.  "Mr.  Southwode  is  on  the 
high  seas  somewhere,  on  his  way  to  England." 

"  On  the  high  seas ! "  Eotha  repeated  slowly. 

"There  was  no  occasion  to  mention  that,  Mr. 
Busby,"  said  his  wife.  "Mr.  Southwode's  move- 
ments are  nothing  to  us." 

"  Seem  to  be  something  to  Rotha,"  said  the  gen- 
tleman. 

"You  knew  that,"  said  Rotha,  steadily.  "Why 
did  you  keep  it  from  me,  aunt  Serena  ?  " 

"I  did  not  keep  it  from  you,"  Mrs.  Busby  re- 


290  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

turned,  bridling.     "The  papers  are  open.     I  did 
not  speak  of  it,  because  Mr.  Southwode  and  his~ 
affairs  are  no  concern  of  yours,  or  of  mine,  and 
therefore  are  not  interesting." 

"Of  yours?  No!  But  they  are  all  I  have  in 
the  world ! "  said  Rotha,  with  fire  in  her  cheeks 
and  in  her  eyes.  Mrs.  Busby  went  on  with  her 
breakfast  and  avoided  looking  at  her.  But  Antoi- 
nette cried  out. 

"  All  she  has  in  the  world !  Mr.  Southwode ! 
Pretty  well  for  a  young  lady !  Mamma,  do  you 
hear  that?  Mr.  Southwode  is  all  she  has  in  the 
world." 

"Once  hearing  a  silly  thing  is  quite  enough. 
You  need  not  repeat  it,  Antoinette." 

"  Didn't  he  come  to  say  good  bye  ?  "  asked  Eotha, 
her  eyes  blazing. 

"I  do  not  answer  questions  put  in  that  tone," 
said  Mrs.  Busby,  coldly. 

"I  know  he  did,"  said  Rotha.  "What  did  he  go 
to  England  for,  Mr.  Busby  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Busby,"  said  his  wife,  "  I  request  you  not 
to  reply.  Rotha  is  behaving  improperly,  and  must 
be  left  to  herself  till  she  is  better-mannered." 

"I  don't  know,  my  dear,"  said  the  gentleman, 
rising  and  gathering  his  newspapers  together,  pre- 
vious to  taking  his  departure.  "'Seems  to  me 
that's  an  open  question — public,  as  you  say.  I  do 
not  see  why  you  should  not  tell  Rotha  that  Mr. 
Southwode  is  called  home  by  the  illness  and  prob- 
able death  of  his  father.  Good-morning,  my  dear ! " 


NOT  DRESSED.  291 

"Did  you  ever  see  anything  like  papa!"  said  An- 
toinette with  an  appealing  look  at  her  mother,  as  the 
door  closed.  "He  don't  mind  you  a  bit,  mamma." 

Mrs.  Busby's  slight  air  of  the  head  was  more  sig- 
nificant than  words. 

"  He  is  the  only  fraction  of  a  friend  I  have  in 
this  house,"  said  Rotha.  "But  you  needn't  think, 
aunt  Serena,  that  you  can  do  what  you  like  with 
Mr.  Southwode  and  me.  I  belong  to  him,  not  to 
you;  and  he  will  come  back,  and  then  he  will  take 
me  under  his  own  care,  and  I  will  have  nothing  to 
do  with  you  the  rest  of  my  life.  I  know  you  now. 
I  thought  I  did  before,  and  now  I  know.  You  let 
mamma  want  everything  in  the  world;  and  now 
perhaps  you  will  let  me;  but  Mr.  Southwode  will 
take  care  of  me,  sooner  or  later,  and  I  can  wait, 
for  I  know  him  too." 

Rotha  left  the  room,  unconsciously  with  the  air 
of  a  tragedy  queen.  Alas,  it  was  tragedy  enough 
with  her ! 

"Mamma!"  said  Antoinette.  "Did  you  ever  see 
anything  like  that  ?  " 

"  I  knew  it  was  in  her,"  Mrs.  Busby  said,  keep- 
ing her  composure  in  appearance. 

"  What  will  you  do  with  her  ?  " 

"Let  her  alone  a  little,"  said  Mrs.  Busby  icily. 
"  Let  her  come  to  her  senses." 

"  Will  you  go  to  get  her  cloak  to-day?" 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  should  give  myself  any 
trouble  about  her.  I  will  let  her  wait  till  she 
comes  to  her  senses  and  hu-mbles  herself  to  me." 


292  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Do  you  think  she  ever  will  ?  " 

"  I  don't  care,  whether  she  does  or  not.  It  is 
all  the  same  to  me.  You  let  her  alone  too,  Antoi- 
nette." 

"7  will,"  said  Antoinette.  "I  don't  like  spitfires. 
High !  what  a  powder-magazine  she  is,  mamma ! 
Her  eyes  are  enough  to  set  fire  to  things  some- 
times." 

"  Don't  use  such  an  inelegant  word,  Antoinette. 
4 High ! '  How  can  you  ?  Where  did  you  get  it?  " 

"  You  send  me  to  school,  mamma,  to  learn ;  and 
so  I  pick  up  a  few  things.  But  do  you  think  it  is 
true,  what  she  says  about  Mr.  Southwode  ?  " 

"What?" 

"That  he  will  come  and  take  her  away  from 
you." 

"  Not  if  I  don't  choose  it," 

"  And  you  will  not  choose  it,  will  you  ?  " 

"Don't  be  foolish,  Antoinette.  Kotha  will  never 
see  Mr.  Southwode  again.  She  has  defied  me,  and 
now  she  may  take  the  consequences." 

"But  he  wiU  come  back,  mamma?     He  said  so." 

"I  hope  he  will." 

"  Then  he'll  find  Eotha,  and  she'll  tell  him  her 
own  story." 

"Will  you  trust  me  to  look  after  ray  own  af- 
fairs? And  get  yourself  ready  to  go  out  with  me 
immediately." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

IN    SECLUSION. 

F)  OTH  A  climbed  the  three  flights  of  stairs  from  the 
IV  breakfast  room,  feeling  that  her  aunt's  house, 
and  the  world  generally,  had  become  a  desert  to 
her.  She  went  up  to  her  own  little  room,  being 
very  sure  that  neither  in  the  warm  dressing  room 
on  the  second  floor,  nor  indeed  in  any  other,  would 
she  be  welcome,  or  even  perhaps  tolerated.  How 
should  she  be,  after  what  had  taken  place  ?  And 
how  could  she  breathe,  anyhow,  in  any  atmosphere 
where  her  aunt  was  ?  Imprudent  ?  had  she  been 
imprudent?  Very  possibly;  she  had  brought  mat- 
ters to  an  unmanageable  point,  inconvenient  for 
all  parties;  arid  she  had  broken  through  the  cold 
reserve  which  it  had  been  her  purpose  to  maintain, 
and  lost  sight  wholly  of  the  principles  by  which  it 
had  Been  Mr.  Digby's  wish  that  she  should  be 
guided.  Rotha  had  a  mental  recognition  of  all 
this ;  but  passion  met  it  with  simple  defiance.  She 
was  not  weeping;  the  fire  at  her  heart  scorched  all 
tender  moisture,  though  it  would  not  keep  her 
blood  warm.  The  day  was  wintry  indeed.  Rotha 
pulled  the  coverlet  off  her  bed  and  wrapped  her- 
self in  it,  and  sat  down  to  think. 
(293) 


294  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Thinking,  is  too  good  a  name  to  give  to  what 
for  some  time  went  on  in  Botha's  mind.  She  was 
rather  looking  at  the  procession  of  images  which 
passion  called  up  and  sent  succeeding  one  another 
through  the  chambers  of  her  brain.  It  was  a  very 
dreary  time  with  the  girl.  Her  aunt's  treachery, 
her  cousin's  coldness,  Mr.  Digby's  pitiless  desertion, 
her  lonely,  lonely  place  in  the  world,  her  unen- 
durable dependence  on  people  that  did  not  love 
her;  for  just  now  her  dependence  on  Mr.  Digby 
had  failed;  it  all  rushed  through  and  through  Ro- 
tha's  head,  for  all  the  world  like  the  changing 
images  in  a  kaleidoscope,  which  are  but  new  com- 
binations, eternally  renewed,  of  the  same  change- 
less elements.  At  first  they  went  through  Rotha's 
head  in  a  kind  of  storm ;  gradually,  for  very  weari- 
ness, the  storm  laid  itself,  and  cold  reality  and 
sober  reason  had  the  field. 

But  what  could  reason  do  with  the  reality  ?  In 
other  words,  what  step  was  now  to  take?  What 
was  to  be  done  ?  Rotha  could  not  see.  She  was 
at  present  at  open  war  with  her  aunt.  Yes,  she 
allowed,  that  had  not  been  exactly  prudent;  but  it 
would  have  had  to  come,  sooner  or  later.  She 
could  not  live  permanently  on  false  social  grounds; 
as  well  break  through  them  at  once.  But  what 
now  ?  What  ground  did  she  expect  to  stand  and 
move  on  now  ?  She  could  not  leave  her  aunt's 
house,  for  she  had  no  other  home  to  go  to.  How 
was  she  to  stay  in  it,  if  she  made  no  apology  or 
submission  ?  And  I  cannot  do  that,  said  the  girl 


IN  SECLUSION.  295 

to  herself.  Apology  indeed !  It  is  she  who  ought 
to  humble  herself  to  me,  for  it  is  she  who  has 
wronged  me,  bitterly,  meanly.  Passion  renewed 
the  storm,  for  a  little  while.  But  by  degrees  Ro- 
tha  came  to  be  simply  cold  and  tired  and  miser- 
able. What  to  do  she  did  not  know. 

Nobody  was  at  home  to  luncheon.  She  knew 
this,  and  got  some  refreshment  from  Lesbia,  and 
also  warmed  herself  through  at  the  dressing-room 
fire.  But  when  the  door  bell  announced  the  re- 
turn of  her  aunt  and  cousin,  she  sped  away  up 
stairs  again  and  wrapped  herself  in  her  coverlet, 
and  waited.  She  waited  till  it  grew  dark.  She 
was  not  called  to  dinner,  and  saw  that  she  would 
not  be.  Rotha  fed  upon  indignation,  which  fur- 
nished her  a  warm  meal;  and  then  somebody 
knocked  softly  at  her  door.  Lesbia  had  brought  a 
plate  with  some  cold  viands. 

"I'll  fetch  it  agin  by  and  by,"  she  whispered. 
"I'm  allays  agin  seein'  folks  starve.  What's  the 
matter,  Miss  Rotha?" 

Lesbia  had  heard  one  side  down  stairs,  and  im- 
partially was  willing  now  to  hear  the  other.  Rotha's 
natural  dignity  however  never  sought  such  solace 
of  her  troubles. 

"Thank  you,  Lesbia,"  she  simply  said.  "My 
aunt  is  vexed  with  me." 

"  She's  vexed  worse'n  ever  I  seen  her.  What 
you  gone  and  done,  Miss  Rotha?  " 

"  It  can't  be  helped,"  said  Rotha.  "  She  and  I  do 
not  think  alike." 


296  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"It's  convenientest  not  to  quarrel  with  Mrs. 
Busby  if  you  live  in  the  house  with  her,"  said 
Lesbia.  "  She's  orful  smart,  she  is.  But  she  and 
me  allays  thinks  just  alike,  and  so  I  get  on  first 
rate  with  her." 

"  That's  a  very  good  way,  for  you,"  said  Rotha. 

She  went  to  bed,  dulled  that  night  with  pain 
and  misery,  and  slept  the  night  through.  When 
the  light  of  a  bright  Sunday  morning  awoke  her, 
she  opened  her  eyes  again  to  the  full  dreariness  of 
her  situation.  So  terribly  dreary  and  cold  at  heart 
Rotha  had  never  felt.  Deserted  by  her  one  friend 
— and  with  that  thought  Rotha  broke  down  and 
cried  as  if  she  would  break  her  heart.  But  hearts 
are  tough,  and  do  not  break  so  easily.  The  neces- 
sity of  getting  dressed  before  breakfast  obliged  her 
to  check  her  passion  of  grief  and  dry  her  eyes; 
though  that  she  did  not;  the  tears  kept  dripping 
on  her  hands  and  into  her  basin  of  water ;  but  she 
finished  dressing,  and  then  queried  what  she  should 
do  about  going  to  the  breakfast-table.  She  was 
very  uncertain  whether  she  would  be  allowed 
there.  However,  it  was  disagreeable,  but  the  at- 
tempt must  be  made ;  she  must  find  out  whether 
it  was  war  to  the  knife  or  not.  And  although  the 
thought  choked  her,  she  was  hungry ;  and  be  it  the 
bread  of  charity,  and  her  aunt's  charity  to  boot,  she 
could  not  get  along  without  it.  She  went  down 
stairs,  rather  late.  The  family  were  at  breakfast 

Her  aunt  did  not  look  at  her.  Antoinette  stared 
at  her.  Mr.  Busby,  as  usual,  took  no  notice.  Ro- 


IN  SECLUSION.  297 

tha  came  up  to  the  side  of  the  table  and  stood 
there,  changing  colour  somewhat. 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  said,  "if  I  am  to  be  al- 
lowed to  come  to  breakfast.  I  came  to  see." 

Mrs.  Busby  made  no  answer. 

"  Polite — •"  said  Antoinette. 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  Mr.  Busby  looking  up  from  a  letter, 
"  what's  that  ?  Sit  down,  my  dear,  you  are  late. 
Hold  your  plate — " 

As  nobody  interfered,  Kotha  did  so  and  sat  down 
to  her  meal.  Mrs.  Busby  said  nothing  whatever. 
Perhaps  she  felt  she  had  pushed  matters  pretty  far; 
perhaps  she  avoided  calling  her  husband's  atten- 
tion any  further  to  the  subject.  She  made  no  re- 
mark about  anything,  till  Mr.  Busby  had  left  the 
room  ;  nor  then  immediately.  When  she  did  speak, 
it  was  in  her  hard,  measured  way. 

"As  you  present  yourself  before  me  this  morn- 
ing, Rotha,  I  may  hope  that  you  are  prepared  to 
make  me  a  proper  apology." 

"  What  have  I  done,  aunt  Serena  ?  " 

"  Do  you  ask  me?  You  have  forgotten  strangely 
the  behaviour  due  from  you  to  me." 

"I  did  not  forget  it — "  said  Rotha  slowly. 

"Will  you  give  me  an  excuse  for  your  conduct, 
then?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Rotha.  "  Because,  aunt  Serena,  you 
had  forgotten  so  utterly  the  treatment  due  from 
you  to  me." 

Mrs.  Busby  flushed  a  little.  Still  she  commanded 
herself  She  always  did. 


298  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Mamma,  she's  pretty  impudent !  "  said  Antoi- 
nette. 

"  I  always  make  allowances,  and  you  must  learn 
to  do  so,  Antoinette,  for  people  who  have  never 
learned  any  manners." 

Rotha  was  stung,  but  she  confessed  to  herself 
that  passion  had  made  her  overleap  the  bounds 
which  she  had  purposed,  and  Mr.  Digby  had  coun- 
selled, her  behaviour  should  observe.  So  she  was 
now  silent. 

"  However,"  Mrs.  Busby  went  on,  "  it  is  quite 
necessary  that  any  one  living  in  my  family  and 
sheltered  by  my  roof,  should  pay  me  the  respect 
which  they  owe  to  me." 

"  I  will  always  pay  all  I  owe,"  said  Rotha 
deliberately,  "  so  far  as  I  have  anything  to  pay  it 
with." 

"  And  in  case  the  supply  fails,"  said  Mrs.  Busby, 
her  voice  trembling  a  little,  "  don't  you  think  you 
had  better  avoid  going  deeper  into  debt  ?  " 

"  What  do  I  owe  you,  aunt  Serena  ?  "  asked  the 
girl. 

Mrs.  Busby  saw  the  gathering  fire  in  the  dark 
eyes,  and  did  not  desire  to  bring  on  another  explo- 
sion. She  assumed  an  impassive  air,  looked  away 
from  Rotha,  rose  and  began  to  put  her  cups  to- 
gether on  the  tea-board,  and  rang  for  the  tub  of 
hot  water. 

"  I  leave  that  to  your  own  sense  to  answer,"  she 
said.  "  But  if  you  are  to  stay  in  my  house,  I  beg 
you  to  understand,  you  must  behave  yourself  to 


IN  SECLUSION.  299 

me  with  all  proper  civility  and  good  manners. 
Else  I  will  turn  you  into  the  street" 

Eotha  recognized  the  necessity  for  a  certain  de- 
cency of  exterior  form  at  least,  if  she  and  her  aunt 
were  to  continue  under  one  roof;  and  so,  though 
her  tongue  was  ready  with  an  answer,  she  did  not 
at  once  make  it.  She  rose,  and  was  about  quit- 
ting the  room,  when  the  fire  in  her  blazed  up 
again. 

"  It  is  where  mother  would  have  been,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  other  friends,"  she  said. 

She  opened  the  door  as  she  spoke,  and  toiled  up 
the  long  stairs  to  her  room;  for  when  the  heart  is 
heavy  somehow  one's  feet  are  not  light.  She  went 
to  her  cold  little  room  and  sat  down.  The  sun- 
shine was  very  bright  outside,  and  church  bells 
were  ringing.  No  going  to  church  for  her,  nor 
would  there  have  been  in  any  case;  she  had  no 
garments  fit  to  go  out  in.  Would  she  ever  have 
them?  Rotha  queried.  The  church  bells  hurt  her 
heart;  she  wished  they  would  stop  ringing;  they 
sounded  clear  and  joyous  notes,  and  reminded  her 
of  happy  times  past.  Medway ville,  her  father,  her 
mother,  peace  and  honour,  and  latterly  Mr.  South- 
wode,  and  all  his  kindness  and  teaching  and  his 
affection.  It  was  too  much.  The  early  Sunday 
morning  was  spent  by  Rotha  in  an  agony  of  weep- 
ing and  lamentation;  silent,  however;  she  made  no 
noise  that  could  be  heard  down  stairs  where  Mrs. 
Busby  and  Antoinette  were  dressing  to  go  to  church. 
The  intensity  of  her  passion  again  by  and  by  «wore 


300  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

itself  out;  and  when  the  last  bells  had  done  ring- 
ing, and  the  patter  of  feet  was  silenced  in  the 
streets,  Rotha  crept  down  to  the  empty  dressing 
room,  feeling  blue  and  cold,  to  warm  herself.  She 
shivered,  she  stretched  her  arms  to  the  warmth 
of  the  fire,  she  was  chilled  to  the  core,  with  a  chill 
that  was  yet  more  mental  than  physical  Alone, 
and  stripped  of  everything,  and  everybody  gone 
that  she  loved.  What  was  she  to  do  ?  how  was 
she  to  live?  She  was  struggling  with  a  burden 
of  realities  and  trying  to  make  them  seem  unreal, 
trying  for  an  outlook  of  hope  or  comfort  in  the 
darkness  of  her  prospects.  In  vain;  Mr.  Digby 
was  gone,  and  with  him  all  her  strength  and  her 
reliance.  He  was  gone;  nobody  could  tell  when 
he  would  come  back;  perhaps  never;  and  she  could 
not  write  to  him,  and  his  letters  would  never  get 
to  her.  Never;  she  was  sure  of  it.  Mrs.  Busby 
would  never  let  them  get  further  than  her  own 
hands.  So  everything  was  worse  than  she  had 
ever  feared  it  could  be. 

Sitting  there  on  the  rug  before  the  fire,  and  with 
her  teeth  chattering,  partly  from  real  cold  and 
partly  from  the  nervous  exhaustion,  there  came  to 
her  suddenly  something  Mr.  Digby  had  once  said 
to  her.  If  she  should  come  to  see  a  time  when 
she  would  have  nobody  to  depend  on;  when  her 
world  would  be  wholly  a  desert ;  all  gone  that  she 
had  loved  or  trusted.  It  has  come  now ! — she 
thought  to  herself;  even  he,  who  I  thought  would 
never  fail  me,  he  has  failed.  He  said  he  would 


IN  SECLUSION.  301 

not  fail  me,  but  he  has  failed.  I  am  alone ;  I  have 
nobody  any  more.  Then  he  told  me — 

She  went  back  and  gathered  it  up  in  her  mem- 
ory, what  he  had  told  her  to  do  then.  TJien  if  she 
would  seek  the  Lord,  seek  him  with  her  whole 
heart,  she  would  find  him;  and  finding  him,  she 
would  find  good  again.  The  poor,  sore  heart  caught 
at  the  promise.  I  will  seek  him,  she  suddenly  said; 
I  will  seek  till  I  find;  I  have  nothing  else  now. 

The  resolve  was  as  earnest  as  it  was  sudden. 
Doubtless  the  way  had  been  preparing  for  it,  in 
her  mother's  and  her  father's  teachings  and  prayers 
and  example,  and  in  Mr.  Digby's  words  and  kind- 
ness and  his  example;  she  remembered  now  the 
look  of  his  eyes  as  he  told  her  the  Lord  Jesus  would 
do  all  she  trusted  him  to  do.  Yet  the  determina- 
tion was  extremely  sudden  to  Eotha  herself.  And 
as  the  meeting  of  two  currents,  whether  in  the 
waters  or  in  the  air  or  the  human  mind,  generally 
raises  a  commotion,  so  this  flowing  in  of  light  and 
promise  upon  the  midst  of  her  despair  almost  broke 
Rotha's  heart.  The  tears  shed  this  time,  however, 
though  abundant,  were  less  bitter ;  and  Rotha  raised 
her  head  and  dashed  the  drops  away,  and  ran  up 
stairs  to  fetch  her  mother's  Bible  and  begin  her 
quest  upon  the  spot.  Lying  there  upon  the  rug  in 
her  aunt's  dressing  room,  she  began  it. 

She  began  with  a  careful  consideration  of  the 
three  marked  passages.  The  one  in  John  espe- 
cially held  her.  "  He  that  hath  my  commandments 
and  keepeth  them,  he  it  is  that  loveth  me." — 1 


302  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

do  not  love  Him,  thought  Eotha,  for  I  do  not  know 
Him;  but  I  must  begin,  I  suppose,  with  keeping 
his  commandments.  Now  the  thing  is,  to  find  out 
what. — 

She  opened  her  book  at  hap  hazard,  lying  on  the 
rug  there  with  it  before  her.  A  leaf  or  two  aim- 
lessly turned, — and  her  eye  fell  on  these  words: 

"  And  in  that  day  shall  the  deaf  hear  the  words 
of  the  book,  and  the  eyes  of  the  blind  shall  see  out 
of  obscurity  and  out  of  darkness.  The  meek  also 
shall  increase  their  joy  in  the  Lord,  and  the  poor 
among  men  shall  rejoice  in  the  Holy  One  of  Israel." 

I  am  poor  enough,  thought  Rotha,  while  soft 
warm  tears  streamed  afresh  from  her  eyes; — and 
deaf  enough,  arid  blind  enough  too,  I  have  been; 
but  meek? — I  guess  I'm  not  meek. 

Turning  over  a  leaf  or  two,  her  eyes  were  caught 
by  the  thirty  fifth  chapter  of  Isaiah,  and  she  read 
it  all.  There  was  the  promise  for  the  deaf  and  the 
blind  again ;  Rotha  applied  that  to  herself  unhesi- 
tatingly ;  but  the  rest  of  the  chapter  she  could  not 
well  understand.  Except  one  thing;  that  the  way 
of  the  blessed  people  is  a  "  way  of  holiness."  And 
also  the  promise  in  the  last  verse,  which  seemed  to 
be  an  echo  of  those  words  of  Jesus — "  He  that 
cometh  to  me  shall  never  hunger,  and  he  that  be- 
lieveth  on  me  shall  never  thirst."  And  Rotha  was 
so  hungry,  and  so  thirsty !  She  paused  just  there, 
and  covering  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  made  one  of 
the  first  real  prayers,  perhaps,  she  had  ever  prayed. 
It  was  a  dumb  stretching  out  of  her  hands  for  the 


IN  SECLUSION.  303 

food  she  was  starving  for;  not  much  more;  but  it 
was  eagerly  put  in  the  name  of  Christ,  and  such 
cries  he  hears.  She  turned  over  a  few  more  leaves 
and  stopped. 

"  I  the  Lord  have  called  thee  in  righteousness, 
and  will  hold  thine  hand,  and  will  keep  thee,  and 
give  thee  for  a  covenant  of  the  people,  for  a  light 
of  the  Gentiles;  to  open  the  blind  eyes,  to  bring 
out  the  prisoners  from  the  prison,  and  them  that 
sit  in  darkness  out  of  the  prison  house." 

Who  could  that  be?  Eotha  knew  enough  to 
guess  that  it  conld  mean  but  one,  even  the  great 
Deliverer.  And  a  little  further  on  she  saw  other 
words  which  encouraged  her. 

"  I  will  bring  the  blind  by  a  way  that  they  know 
not;  I  will  lead  them  in  paths  they  have  not  known ; 
I  will  make  darkness  light  before  them,  and  crooked 
things  straight.  These  things  will  I  do  unto  them, 
and  not  forsake  them." 

So  many  promises  to  the  blind,  Eotha  said  to 
herself;  and  that  means  me.  I  don't  think  I  am 
meek,  but  I  know  I  am  blind. — Then  on  the  very 
next  leaf  she  read — 

"  I  have  blotted  out,  as  a  thick  cloud,  thy  trans- 
gressions, and  as  a  cloud  thy  sins;  return  unto  me; 
for  I  have  redeemed  thee." 

jRecfeemec?,  that  means,  bought  back,  said  Rot  ha ; 
and  I  know  who  has  done  it,  too.  I  suppose  that 
is  how  he  delivered  the  prisoners  out  of  the  prison 
house.  Well,  if  he  has  redeemed  me,  I  ought  to 
belong  to  him, — and  I  will !  I  do  not  know  much, 


304  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

but  there  is  another  promise;  he  will  bring  the  blind 
by  a  way  they  have  not  known,  and  will  make 
darkness  light  before  them.  Now  what  I  have  to 
do, — yes,  I  am  redeemed,  and  I  will  be  redeemed ; 
and  I  belong  to  him  who  has  redeemed  me,  of 
course.  "  He  that  hath  my  commandments  and 
keepeth  them  " — what  are  they  ? 

She  thought  she  must  look  in  the  New  Testament 
for  them ;  and  not  knowing  where  to  look  in  par- 
ticular, she  turned  to  the  first  chapter.  It  did  not 
seem  to  contain  much  that  concerned  her,  till  she 
came  to  the  21st  verse. 

"Arid  she  shall  bring  forth  a  son,  and  thou  shalt 
call  his  name  JESUS:  for  he  shall  save  his  people 
from  their  sins." 

Rotha  put  that  together  with  the  "way  of  holi- 
ness," but  it  seemed  to  her  unspeakably  wonderful. 
In  fact,  it  was  hard  to  believe.  Save  Jier  from  her 
sins  ?  from  pride  and  anger  and  self-will  and  self- 
pleasing  ?  why,  they  were  inborn ;  they  were  in  her 
very  blood ;  they  came  like  the  breath  of  her  breath- 
ing. Could  she  be  saved  from  them  ?  Air.  Digby 
was  like  that.  But  a  Rotha  without  anger  and 
pride  and  self-will — would  she  know  herself?  would 
it  be  Rotha  ?  and  was  she  quite  sure  that  she  de- 
sired to  be  the  subject  of  such  a  transformation  ? 
Never  mind;  desire  it  or  not,  this  was  the  "way 
of  holiness,"  and  there  was  no  other.  But  about 
commandments  ? — 

She  read  the  second  chapter  with  an  interest 
that  hitherto  she  had  never  given  to  it ;  so  also  the 


IN  SECLUSION.  305 

third,  without  finding  yet  what  she  was  looking 
for.  The  second  verse,  John  the  Baptist's  cry  to 
repentance,  she  answered  by  saying  that  she  ?iad 
repented;  that  step  was  taken;  what  next?  In 
the  fourth  chapter  she  paused  at  the  10th  verse. 
I  see,  she  said,  one  is  not  to  do  wrong  even  for  the 
whole  world ;  but  what  must  I  do  that  is  right  ? 
She  startled  a  little  at  the  19th  verse;  concluded 
however  that  the  command  to  "  follow  him  "  was 
directed  only  to  the  people  of  that  time,  the  apos- 
tles and  others,  who  were  expected  literally  to 
leave  their  callings  and  accompany  Jesus  in  his 
wanderings.  The  beatitudes  were  incipient  com- 
mands, perhaps.  But  she  did  not  quite  under- 
stand most  of  them.  At  the  16th  verse  she  came 
to  a  full  pause. 

"Let  your  light  so  shine" — That  is  like  Mr. 
Digby.  Everything  he  does  is  just  beautiful,  and 
shews  one  how  one  ought  to  be.  Then  according 
to  that,  I  must  not  do  any  wrong  at  all ! — 

Just  here  Eotha  heard  the  latch  key  in  the  house 
door,  and  knew  the  family  were  coming  home  from 
church.  She  seized  her  Bible  and  ran  off  up  stairs. 
There  it  was  necessary  to  wrap  herself  in  her  cov- 
erlet again ;  and  shivering  a  little  she  put  her  book 
on  the  bed  side  and  knelt  beside  it.  But  presently 
poor  Eotha  was  brought  up  short  in  her  studies. 
She  had  been  saying  comfortably  to  herself,  read- 
ing v.  22, — I  have  not  been  "angry  without  a 
cause  " ;  and  I  have  not  called  anybody  "  liaca,"  or 
"  Thou  fool ";  but  then  it  came — 


306  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  If  thou  bring  thy  gift  to  the  altar,  and  there 
rememberest  that  thy  brother  hath  ought  against  thee, 

leave  there  thy  gift go  thy  way.  .  .  . 

first  be  reconciled  .  .  .  then  offer  thy  gift." 

Rotha  felt  as  if  she  had  got  a  blow.  Her  aunt 
had  "  something  against  her."  But,  said  Rotha  to 
herself,  not  the  thousandth  part  of  what  /  have 
against  her.  No  matter,  conscience  objected;  her 
charge  remains  the  same,  although  you  may  have 
a  larger  to  set  off  against  it.  Then  am  I  to  go 
and  make  it  up  with  her?  I  can't  do  it,  said 
Rotha.  I  do  not  wish  to  do  it.  I  wish  her  to 
know  that  I  am  angry,  and  justly  angry;  if  I 
were  to  go  and  ask  her  pardon  for  my  way  of  speak- 
ing, she  would  just  think  I  want  to  make  it  up 
with  her  so  that  she  may  get  me  my  new  cloak  and 
other  things. —  And  Rotha  turned  hot  and  cold 
at  the  thought.  Yet  conscience  pertinaciously  pre- 
sented the  injunction — "first  be  reconciled  to  thy 
brother."  It  was  a  dead  lock.  Rotha  felt  that  her 
prayers  would  not  be  acceptable  or  accepted,  while 
a  clear  duty  was  knowingly  left  undone ;  and  do  it 
she  would  not.  At  least  not  now;  and  how  ever, 
that  she  could  not  see.  Her  heart  which  had 
been  a  little  lightened,  sank  down  like  lead.  O, 
thought  she,  is  it  so  hard  a  thing  to  be  a  Chris- 
tian? Did  Mr.  Digby  ever  have  such  a  fight,  I 
wonder,  before  he  got  to  be  as  he  is  now?  He 
does  not  look  as  if  he  ever  had  fights.  But  then 
he  is  strong. 

And  Rotha  was  weak.     She  knew  it     She  let 


IN  SECLUSION.  307 

her  eye  run  down  the  page  a  little  further;  and  it 
came  to  these  words — 

"  If  thy  right  eye  offend  thee,  pluck  it  out,  and 
cast  it  from  thee."   .....    .     "If  thy  right  hand 

offend  thee,  cut  it  off."  .... 

Duty  was  plain  enough.  This  luxury  of  anger 
at  her  aunt  was  a  forbidden  pleasure ;  it  must  be 
given  up;  and  at  the  thought,  Rotha  clutched  it 
the  more  warmly.  So  the  bell  rang  for  dinner,  al- 
ways early  on  Sunday.  She  would  rather  not  have 
gone  down,  and  did  linger;  then  she  heard  it  rung 
the  second  time  and  knew  that  was  to  summon  the 
stragglers.  She  went  down.  The  rest  were  at 
table. 

"Mamma,"  Antoinette  was  saying,  "you  must 
get  a  new  bonnet." 

"Why?" 

"  Mrs.  Mac  Jimpsey  has  got  a  new  one,  and  it  is 
handsomer  than  yours." 

"  What  does  that  signify  ? "  was  asked  in  Mr. 
Busby's  curious  husky  tones  and  abrupt  utterance. 

"  0  papa,  you  don't  understand  such  things." 

"Nor  you  neither.     You  are  a  little  goose." 

"  Papa !  don't  you  want  mamma  and  me  to  be 
as  nice  as  anybody  ?  " 

"  You  are." 

"0  but  Mrs.  Mac  Jimpsey's  bonnet  was  fifty 
times  handsomer  than  mamma's.  You  don't  know, 
but  it  was." 

"  Nevertheless,  your  mamma  is  fifty  times  hand- 
somer than  Mrs.  Mac  Jimpsey." 


308  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"0  papa!  but  that  isn't  the  thing." 

"And  Mr.  Mac  Jimpsey's  pocket  is  some  fifty 
dollars  or  so  emptier  than  mine.  You  see,  we  have 
a  hundred  times  the  advantage,  to  say  the  least." 

"Papa,  gentlemen  never  understand  such  things." 

"Better  for  them  if  the  ladies  didn't." 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Busby  smoothly,  "you  do 
not  consider  dress  a  subject  of  small  importance  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  occasion  to  think  about  it,  my  dear, 
I  am  aware." 

"Why  do  you  say  that,  Mr.  Busby?" 

"  It  receives  such  exhaustive  consideration  from 
you." 

"It  cannot  be  done  without  consideration;  not 
properly.  Good  dressing  is  a  distinction;  and  it 
requires  a  careful  regard  to  circumstances,  to  keep 
up  one's  appearance  properly." 

"  What  do  you  think  about  it,  Rotha  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Busby. 

Rotha  was  startled,  and  flushed  all  over.  To  an- 
swer was  not  easy;  and  yet  answer  she  must.  "  I 
think  it  is  comfortable  to  be  well  dressed,"  she  said. 

"Well  dressed!  but  there  is  the  question.  What 
do  you  mean  by  '  well  dressed '  ?  You  see,  Antoi- 
nette means  by  it  simply,  handsomer  things  than 
Mrs.  Mac  Jimpsey." 

Antoinette  pouted,  much  incensed  at  this  speech 
and  at  the  appeal  to  Rotha  generally;  and  Mrs. 
Busby  brought  her  lips  into  firmer  compression; 
though  neither  spoke.  Mr.  Busby  went  on,  rather 
kindly. 


IN  SECLUSION.  309 

"  What's  the  matter,  that  you  didn't  go  to  church 
to-day?  Is  Antoinette's  bonnet  handsomer  than 
yours  ?  " 

"It  ought  to  be,  Mr.  Busby,"  said  the  lady  of 
the  house  here. 

"Ought  it?  Eotha  might  put  in  a  demurrer. 
May  I  ask  why  ?  " 

"Circumstances  are  different,  Mr.  Busby.  That 
is  what  I  said.  Proper  dressing  must  keep  a  due 
regard  to  circumstances." 

"  Mine  among  the  rest.  Now  I  don't  see  why  a 
bonnet  fit  for  Antoinette's  cousin  isn't  good  enough 
for  Antoinette;  and  the  surplus  money  in  my 
pocket." 

"  And  you  would  have  your  daughter  dress  like 
a  poor  girl  ?  " 

."Couldn't  do  better,  in  my  opinion.  That's  the 
way  not  to  become  one.  Fetch  me  your  bonnet, 
Rotha,  and  let  us  see  what  it  is  like." 

Rotha  coloured  high  and  sat  still.  Indeed  her 
aunt  said,  "Nonsense!  do  no  such  thing."  But 
Mr.  Busby  repeated,  "Fetch  it,  fetch  it.  We  are 
talking  in  the  abstract ;  I  cannot  convict  anybody 
in  the  abstract." 

"  But  it  is  Sunday,  Mr.  Busby." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  what  of  that  ?  The  better  day, 
the  better  deed.  I  am  trying  to  bring  you  and 
Antoinette  to  a  more  Christian  mind  in  respect  of 
bonnets;  that's  good  work  for  Sunday.  Fetch 
your  bonnet,  Rotha." 

"Do  no  such  thing,  Rotha,"  said  her  aunt.     "Mr. 


310  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Busby  is  playing;  he  does  not  mean  his  words  to 
be  taken  literally.  You  would  not  send  her  up 
three  pair  of  stairs  to  gratify  your  whim,  when  an- 
other time  would  do  just  as  well  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  I  always  mean  my  words  to  be  taken 
literally.  I  do  not  understand  your  arts  of  rhet- 
oric. I  will  send  Rotha  up  stairs,  if  she  will  be  so 
obliging  as  to  gratify  my  whim." 

He  looked  at  Rotha  as  he  spoke,  and  Rotha  half 
rose  from  her  seat;  when  Antoinette  suddenly 
dashed  past  her,  saying,  "  I  will  fetch  it " — and  ran 
off  up  stairs.  Rotha  sat  down  again,  much  con- 
founded at  this  benevolence,  and  wondering  what 
that  was  not  benevolent  might  lie  beneath  it. 
Mrs.  Busby  pursed  up  her  mouth  and  looked  at 
nobody.  Presently  Antoinette  came  down  again. 
In  her  hand  she  held  a  little  grey  plush  hat,  some- 
what worn  but  very  jaunty,  with  a  long  grey 
feather,  curled  round  it.  This  hat  she  held  out  on 
the  tips  of  her  fingers  for  her  father's  inspection. 
Rotha's  eyes  grew  large  with  astonishment.  Mrs. 
Busby's  lips  twitched.  Antoinette  looked  daring 
and  mischievous.  Mr.  Busby  innocently  surveyed 
the  grej  plush  and  feather. 

"  So  that  is  what  you  call  a  hat  for  a  poor  girl  ?  " 
he  said.  "It  seems  to  me,  if  I  remember,  that  is 
very  like  one  you  used  to  wear,  Nettie." 

"Yes,  papa,  it  is;  but  this  is  Rotha's." 

"  Mrs.  Busby,  was  this  your  choice  ?  " 

"Yes,  Mr.  Busby." 

"Then  of  course  this  is  proper  for  Rotha.     Now 


IN  SECLUSION.  311 

will  you  explain  to  me  why  it  is  not  equally  proper 
for  Antoinette?  But  this  is  not  what  I  should 
have  called  a  hat  for  a  poor  girl,  my  dear." 

"Mr.  Busby,  while  Eotha  lives  with  us,  it  is 
necessary  to  have  a  certain  conformity — there 
cannot  be  too  much  difference  made." 

"Hum — ha!"  said  the  bewildered  man.  Kotha 
by  this  time  had  got  her  breath. 

"  That  is  not  my  hat  however,  Mr.  Busby,"  she 
said,  with  cheeks  on  fire. 

"Yes,  it  is  your  hat,"  said  Antoinette.  "Do 
you  think  I  am  saying  what  is  not  true?  It  is 
your  hat,  and  nobody  else's." 

"  It  is  your  hat.     I  have  seen  you  wear  it." 

"  I  have  given  it  to  you.     It  is  your  hat." 

"I  don't  take  it,"  said  Kotha.  "Your  things  do 
not  suit  me,  as  your  mother  has  just  said.  You 
may  do  what  you  like  with  it ;  but  you  do  not  give 
it  to  me !  " 

Mr.  Busby  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 

"Do  you  expect  me  to  buy  new  everything  for 
you?"  Mrs.  Busby  asked  now.  "Is  it  not  good 
enough?  I  suppose  it  is  much  better  than  any 
hat  you  ever  had  before  in  your  life." 

"But  it  is  not  mine,"  said  Rotha.  "It  never 
was  given  to  me.  I  never  heard  anything  of  it 
until  now,  when  Antoinette  fetched  it  because 
she  did  not  want  Mr.  Busby  to  see  what  sort 
of  a  hat  I  really  had.  Thank  you!  I  do  not 
take  it." 

"But  it  is  yours!"  cried  Antoinette.     "I  have 


312  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

given  it  to  you.  Do  you  think  I  would  wear  it, 
after  giving  it  away  ?  " 

"  If  it  was  convenient,  you  would,"  said  Rotha. 

"  You  may  lay  your  account  with  not  having  any 
hat,  then,  unless  you  wear  this,"  said  Mrs.  Busby. 
"  You  may  take  your  choice.  If  you  receive  An- 
toinette's kindness  so,  you  must  not  look  for  mine." 

"  Your  kindness,  and  hers,  are  the  very  strangest 
sort  I  ever  heard  of  in  my  life,"  said  Rotha. 

"What  am  I  to  understand  by  all  this?"  asked 
the  perplexed  Mr.  Busby,  looking  from  the  hat  to 
the  faces  of  the  speakers. 

"Only,  that  I  never  heard  of  that  hat's  being 
intended  for  me  until  this  minute,"  said  Rotha. 

"  Rotha,"  said  her  aunt  quietly,  "  you  may  go 
up  stairs." 

"  What  did  you  bring  it  down  for,  Nettie  ?  " 

"  Because  you  took  an  insane  fancy  to  see  Ro- 
tha's  bonnet,  papa;  so  I  brought  it." 

"  That  is  not  true,  Mr.  Busby,"  Rotha  said, 
standing  up  to  go. 

"  It  is  not  your  hat  ?  " 

"No,  sir." 

"  Mr.  Busby,  if  you  would  listen  to  Antoinette's 
words,"  said  his  wife  with  her  lips  very  compressed 
"  you  would  understand  things.  Rotha,  I  said  you 
might  go." 

Which  Rotha  did,  Antoinette  at  the  same  mo- 
ment bursting  into  tears  and  flinging  the  hat  on 
the  dinner  table. 

What  followed,  Rotha  did  not  know.    She  climbed 


IN  SECLUSION.  313 

the  many  stairs  with  a  heavy  heart.  It  was  war  to 
the  knife  now.  She  was  sure  her  aunt  would  never 
forgive  her.  And,  much  worse,  she  did  not  see 
how  she  was  ever  to  forgive  her  aunt.  And  yet 
— "  if  thy  neighbour  hath  ought  against  thee  " — . 
Rotha  had  far  more  against  her,  she  excused  her- 
self, in  vain.  The  one  debt  was  not  expunged  by 
the  other.  And,  bitter  as  her  own  grievances 
seemed  to  her,  there  was  a  score  on  the  other 
side.  Not  so  would  Mr.  Digby  have  received  or 
returned  injuries.  Rotha  knew  it.  And  as  fancy 
represented  to  her  the  quiet,  manly,  dignified  sweet- 
ness which  always  characterized  him,  she  did  not 
like  the  retrospect  of  her  own  behaviour.  So  true 
it  is,  that  "  whatsoever  doth  make  manifest  is  light." 
No  discourse  could  have  given  Rotha  so  keen  a 
sense  of  her  own  failings  as  that  image  of  an- 
other's beautiful  living.  What  was  done  could  not 
be  undone;  but  the  worst  was,  Rotha  was  precisely 
in  the  mood  to  do  it  over  again ;  so  though  sorry 
she  was  quite  aware  that  she  was  not  repentant. 
It  followed  that  the  promises  for  which  she 
longed  and  to  which  she  was  stretching  out  her 
hands,  were  out  of  reach.  Clean  out  of  reach. 
Rotha's  heart  was  the  scene  of  a  struggle  that 
took  away  all  possibility  of  comfort  or  even  of 
hope.  She  had  no  right  to  hope.  "  If  thy  hand 
offend  thee,  cut  it  off" — but  Rotha  was  not  so 
minded.  The  prospect  was  dark  and  miserable. 
How  could  she  go  on  living  in  her  aunt's  house  ? 
and  how  could  she  live  anywhere  else  ?  and  how 


314  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

could  she  bear  her  loneliness  ?  and  how  could  she 
get  to  the  favour  of  that  one  great  Friend,  whose 
smile  is  only  upon  them  that  are  at  least  trying  to 
do  his  commandments?  It  was  dark  in  Rotha's 
soul,  and  stormy. 

It  continued  so  for  days.  In  the  house  she  was 
let  alone,  but  so  thoroughly  that  it  amounted  to 
domestic  exile  or  outlawry.  She  was  let  alone. 
Not  forbidden  to  take  her  place  at  the  family  table, 
or  to  eat  her  portion  of  the  bread  and  the  soup; 
but  for  all  social  or  kindly  relations,  left  to  starve. 
Mr.  Busby's  mouth  had  been  shut  somehow;  he 
was  practically  again  a  man  of  papers ;  and  the  other 
two  hardly  looked  at  Rotha  or  spoke  to  her.  An- 
toinette and  she  sometimes  went  to  school  together 
and  sometimes  separate;  it  was  rather  more  lonely 
when  they  went  together.  In  school  they  hardly 
saw  each  other.  So  days  went  by. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

MRS.    MOWBRAY. 

"  T  T  OW  is  that  Carpenter  girl  doing  ?  "  Mrs.'Mow- 

1 1  bray  inquired  one  day  of  Miss  Blodgett, 
as  they  met  in  one  of  the  passages. 

"I  have  been  wanting  to  speak  to  you  about 
her,  madame.  She  knows  all  I  can  teach  her  in 
that  class." 

"  Does  she !  Her  aunt  told  me  she  had  had  no 
advantages.  Does  she  study  ? 

"  I  fancy  she  has  no  need  to  study  much  where 
she  is.  She  has  been  further." 

"  How  does  she  behave  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  well.    She  does  not  look  to  me  happy." 

"Not  happy!  Is  her  cousin  kind  to  her?  She 
is  cousin  to  that  pretty  Busby,  you  know." 

':  I  think  she  hardly  speaks  to  her.  Not  here, 
I  mean." 

Mrs.  Mowbray  passed  on.  But  that  very  after- 
noon, when  school  was  breaking  up,  Miss  Blodgett 
asked  Eotha  to  wait  a  few  minutes.  The  girls 
were  all  gone  in  a  trice;  Miss  Blodgett  herself 
followed;  and  Rotha  was  left  alone.  She  waited 

a  little  while.     Then  the  door  opened  and  the  fig- 
(315) 


316  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

ure  which  had  such  a  fascination  for  her  appeared. 
The  face  looked  gentler  and  kinder  than  she  had 
seen  it  before;  this  was  not  school  time.  Mrs. 
Mowbray  came  in  and  sat  down  by  Kotha,  after 
giving  her  her  hand. 

"  Are  you  quite  well,  my  dear  ?  "  was  her  instant 
question  after  the  greeting.  "You  are  hoarse." 

Eotha  said  she  had  caught  a  little  cold. 

"  How  did  you  do  that  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  was  sitting  in  a  cold  room." 

"  Were  you  obliged  to  sit  in  a  cold  room  ?  " 

Rotha  hesitated.  "  It  was  pleasanter  there,"  she 
said  with  some  embarrassment. 

"You  never  should  sit  in  a  cold  room.  What 
did  you  want  to  be  in  a  cold  room  for  ?  " 

Rotha  hesitated  again.     "  I  wanted  to  be  alone." 

"  Studying  ?  " 

"Not  my  lessons," — said  Rotha  doubtfully. 

"Not  your  lessons?  If  you  and  I  were  a  little 
better  acquainted,  I  should  ask  for  a  little  more 
confidence.  But  I  will  not  be  unreasonable." 

Rotha  glanced  again  at  the  sweet  face,  so  kindly 
now  with  all  its  penetrating  acuteness  and  habit 
of  authority ;  so  sweet  with  its  smile ;  and  confidence 
sprang  forth  at  the  instant,  together  with  the  long- 
ing for  help.  Did  not  this  look  like  a  friend's 
face  ?  Where  else  was  she  to  find  one  ?  Reserve 
gave  way. 

"  I  was  studying  my  duty,"  she  said  softly. 

"  Your  duty,  my  dear  ?  Was  the  difficulty  about 
knowing  it,  or  about  doing  it  ?  " 


MRS.  MOWBRAY.  317 

< 

"  I  think — about  doing  it." 

"  Is  it  difficult  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Eotha  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart. 

Mrs.  Mowbray  read  the  troubled  brow,  the  in- 
genuous mouth,  the  oppressed  manner;  and  her 
soul  went  forth  in  sympathy  to  her  little  perplexed 
human  sister.  But  her  next  words  were  a  depart- 
ure, and  in  a  different  tone. 

"You  have  never  been  to  school  before,  your 
aunt  tells  me  ?  " 

"No,  ma'am,"  said  Rotha,  disappointed  somehow. 

"Are  you  getting  along  pleasantly?" 

"Not  very  pleasantly,"  Rotha  allowed,  after  a 
pause. 

"  Does  Miss  Blodgett  give  you  too  hard  work 
•to  do?" 

"0  no,  ma'am!"  Rotha  said  with  a  spark  more 
of  spirit.  "  I  have  not  anything  to  do.  I  know  it 
all  already." 

"  You  do !     Where  did  you  learn  it  ?  " 

"Mother  used  to  teach  me — and  then  a  friend 
used  to  teach  me." 

"  What,  my  dear  ?  It  is  important  that  I  should 
know." 

"  Mother  taught  me  history,  and  geography,  and 
grammar,  and  little  things.  Then  a  gentleman 
taught  me  more  history,  and  arithmetic,  and  alge- 
bra, and  Latin,  and  natural  history— 

"The  gentleman  was  the  friend  you  spoke  of?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Do  you  like  to  study,  Rotha  ?  " 


THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"O  yes,  ma'am!  when  it  is  study,  and  I  can 
understand  it." 

"I  suppose  your  aunt  did  not  know  about  all 
this  home  study  ?  " 

"  She  knew  nothing  about  me,"  said  Rotha. 

44  Then  where  has  your  home  been,  my  dear  ? " 

"Here, — for  two  years  past.  Before  that,  it 
was  in  the  country." 

Mrs.  Mowbray  was  silent  a  bit. 

"My  dear,  1  think  the  first  thing  you  should 
do  should  be,  to  take  care  of  that  cold.  Will 
you?" 

"I  do  not  know  how,  ma'am,"  said  Rotha,  for 
the  first  time  lifting  her  eyes  with  something  like 
a  smile  to  the  lady's  face. 

"Does  Mrs.  Busby  know  that  you  have  taken 
cold?" 

44 1  do  not  know,  ma'am." 

"  Will  you  take  some  medicine,  if  I  give  you 
some  ?  " 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am." 

Mrs.  Mowbray  sent  a  servant  for  a  certain  box, 
and  proceeded  to  choose  out  a  vial  which  she  gave 
to  Rotha,  instructing  her  how  to  use  it. 

44  And  then,  some  time  when  we  know  each 
other  better,"  she  went  on,  "  perhaps  you  will  tell 
me  about  that  difficulty  of  duty,  and  let  me  see  if 
I  can  help  you." 

44  0  thank  you,  ma'am ! "  was  spoken  so  ear- 
nestly that  Mrs.  Mowbray  saw  the  matter  must  be 
much  on  the  young  girl's  heart. 


MRS.  MOWBRAY.  319 

That  same  evening  did  Mrs.  Mowbray  make  a 
call  on  Mrs.  Busby. 

She  came  in  with  her  gracious,  sweet,  dignified 
manner,  which  always  put  everybody  upon  his 
best  behaviour  in  her  presence  ;  as  gracious  as  if 
she  had  come  for  the  sole  pleasure  of  a  talk  with 
Mrs.  Busby ;  as  sweet  as  if  she  had  had  no  other 
object  in  coming  but  to  give  her  and  her  family 
pleasure.  And  so  she  talked.  She  talked  public 
news  and  political  questions  with  Mr.  Busby,  with 
full  intelligence,  but  with  admirable  modesty ;  she 
bewitched  him  out  of  his  silence  and  dryness  into 
being  social  and  conversible  ;  she  delighted  him 
with  his  own  unwonted  performance.  With  Mrs. 
Busby  she  talked  Antoinette,  for  whom  she  had  at 
the  same  time  brought  a  charming  little  book, 
which  compliment  flattered  the  whole  family.  She 
talked  Antoinette  and  Antoinette's  interests,  but 
not  Antoinette  alone  ;  with  a  blessed  kind  of  grace 
she  brought  in  among  the  other  things  relations 
and  anecdotes  the  drift  and-  bearing  of  which  was 
away  from  vanity  and  toward  soul  health  ;  stories 
which  took  her  hearers  for  the  moment  at  least  out 
of  the  daily  and  the  trivial  and  the  common,  into 
the  lofty  and  the  noble  and  the  everlasting.  Even 
Mr.  Busby  forgot  his  papers  and  cases  and  waked 
up  to  human  interests  and  social  gentleness ;  and 
even  Mrs.  Busby  let  the  lines  of  her  lips  relax,  and 
her  eyes  glistened  with  something  warmer  than  a 
steely  reflection.  Antoinette  bloomed  with  smiles. 
Rotha  was  not  in  the  room. 


320  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

And  not  till  she  was  drawing  up  her  fur  around 
her,  preparatory  to  departure,  did  Mrs.  Mowbray 
refer  to  the  fourth  member  of  the  family.  Then 
she  said, 

"How  is  your  niece,  Mrs.  Busby?  Miss  Car- 
penter ?  " 

"Quite  well,"  Mrs.  Busby  answered  graciously. 
"I  believe  she  is  at  her  books." 

"  How  does  she  like  going  to  school  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  I  can  hardly  say.  Netta,  how  does 
Rotha  enjoy  her  school  life  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Antoinette.  "  She  doesn't 
enjoy  anything,  I  should  say." 

The  tone  of  neither  question  nor  answer  escaped 
the  watchful  observation  of  the  visiter. 

"I  think  you  said  she  had  had  no  advantages?  " 

"None  whatever,  I  should  say;  not  what  we 
would  call  advantages.  I  suppose  she  has  learned 
a  few  common  things." 

"  She  is  an  orphan  ?  " 

Mrs.  Busby  assented.  "Lost  her  mother  last 
summer." 

"  I  should  like  to  have  her  more  under  my  own 
eye  than  is  possible  as  she  is  now ;  a  mere  day 
scholar.  What  do  you  say  to  letting  her  become 
a  member  of  my  family?  Of  course,"  added  Mrs. 
Mowbray  graciously,  "  I  should  not  propose  to  you 
to  charge  yourself  with  any  additional  burden  on 
her  account.  As  she  is  an  orphan,  I  should 
make  no  difference  because  of  receiving  her  into 
my  family.  I  have  a  professional  ambition  to 


MRS.  MOWBRAY.  321 

gratify,  and  I  like  to  be  able  to  carry  out  my  plana 
in  every  detail.  I  could  do  better  for  Antoinette, 
if  you  would  let  me  have  Jier  altogether;  but  I 
suppose  that  is  not  to  be  thought  of." 

Mrs.  Busby  wore  an  air  of  deliberation.  Mr. 
Busby  was  understood  to  mutter  something  about 
"  very  handsome." 

"Will  you  let  me  have  Antoinette ?  "said  the  lady 
smiling.  "  I  think  it  would  do  her  no  harm." 

"Antoinette  must  content  herself  at  home,"  An- 
toinette's mother  replied.  "I  am  accustomed  to 
having  her  under  my  own  wing." 

"And  that  is  a  privilege  you  would  not  yield  to 
any  one  else.  I  understand.  Well,  what  do  you 
say  about  Miss  Carpenter  ?  " 

Mrs.  Busby  looked  at  her  husband.  Long  ex- 
perience enabled  him  to  guess  at  what  he  was  de- 
sired to  say. 

"My  dear — since  Mrs.  Mowbray  is  so  kind — it 
would  be  a  great  thing  for  Kotha — the  best  thing 
that  could  happen  to  her — " 

Mrs.  Busby  turned  her  eyes  to  her  visiter. 

"  Since  you  are  so  good,  Mrs.  Mowbray — it  is 
more  than  I  could  ask  you  to  do — 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  do  it.  I  am  nothing 
if  not  professional,  you  know,"  Mrs.  Mowbray 
said  rising  and  drawing  her  fur  together  again. 
"Then  that  is  settled." —  And  with  gracious 
deference  and  sweetness  of  manner  she  took  her 
leave. 

"That's   what   I    call   a   good    riddance  1"    ex- 


322  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

claimed  Antoinette  when  she  was  free  to  express 
her  opinion. 

"You  will  find  it  a  happy  relief,"  added  Mr. 
Busby.  "  And  not  a  little  saving,  too." 

Mrs.  Busby  was  silent.  With  all  the  relief  and 
the  saving,  there  was  yet  something  in  the  plan 
which  did  not  suit  her.  Nevertheless,  the  relief, 
and  the  saving,  were  undoubted  facts ;  and  she  held 
her  tongue. 

"  Mamma,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  Ro- 
tha's  dresses  ?  " 

"  I  will  see,  when  she  comes  to  me  with  a  proper 
apology." 

Of  all  this  nothing  was  told  to  Rotha.  So  she 
was  a  little  surprised,  when  next  morning  Mrs. 
Mowbray  came  into  the  schoolroom  and  desired  to 
see  her  after  school.  But  then  Mrs.  Mowbray's  first 
words  were  about  her  cold. 

"  My  dear,  you  are  very  hoarse!  You  can  hardly 
speak.  And  you  feel  miserably,  I  see.  I  shall 
sequester  you  at  once.  Come  with  me." 

Wondering  but  obedient,  Rotha  followed.  What 
was  going  to  happen  now?  Up  stairs,  along  a 
ball,  up  another  fiight  of  stairs,  past  the  great 
schoolrooms,  now  empty,  through  a  small  bedroom, 
through  a  large  one,  along  another  passage.  At 
last  a  door  is  opened,  into  what,  as  Rotha  enters  it, 
seems  to  her  a  domestic  paradise.  The  air  de- 
liciously  warm  and  sweet,  the  walls  full  of  engrav- 
ings or  other  pictures,  tables  heaped  with  books, 
a  luxuriously  appointed  bed  and  dressing  tables, 


MRS.  MOWBRAY.  323 

(what  to  Rotha's  eyes-  was  enormous  luxury) — 
finally  a  couch,  where  she  was  made  to  lie  down 
and  covered  over  with  a  brilliant  affghan.  Rotha 
was  transported  into  the  strangest  of  new  worlds. 
Her  new  friend  arranged  the  pillow  under  her  head, 
gave  her  some  tasteless  medicine ;  that  was  a  won- 
derful innovation  too,  for  all  Rotha's  small  experi- 
ence had  been  of  nauseous  rhubarb  and  magnesia 
or  stinging  salts ;  and  finally  commanded  her  to  lie 
still  and  go  to  sleep. 

"  But  aunt  Serena — ?  "  Rotha  managed  to  whis- 
per. 

"  She  has  made  you  over  to  me.  You  are  going 
to  live  in  my  house  for  the  present,  where  you  can 
carry  on  your  studies  better  than  you  could  at 
home,  and  I  can  attend  to  you  better.  Here  you 
have  been  losing  a  month,  because  I  did  not 
know  what  you  properly  required.  Are  you  will- 
ing to  be  my  child,  Rotha? — instead  of  Mrs.  Bus- 
by's ? — for  a  time  ?  " 

The  flash  of  joy  in  Rotha's  eyes  was  so  eloquent 
and  so  bright,  that  Mrs.  Mowbray  stooped  down 
and  kissed  her. 

"  I  never  was  Mrs.  Busby's  child," — the  girl  must 
make  so  much  protest. 

"Well,  no  matter;  you  are  not  her  child  now. 
Lie  still,  and  go  to  sleep  if  you  can." 

Could  she  ?  Not  at  once.  Is  it  possible  to  tell 
the  sort  of  Elysium  in  which  the  child  was  lapped? 
Softness  and  warmth  and  ease  and  rest,  and  hiding, 
and  such  beauty  and  such  luxury !  Mrs.  Mowbray 


324  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

left  the  room  presently;  arid  Kotha  lay  still  under 
her  affghan,  looking  from  one  to  another  point  of 
delight  in  the  room,  wondering  at  this  suddenly  en- 
tered fairyland,  comforted  inexpressibly  by  the  as- 
surance that  she  was  taken  out  of  her  aunt's  house 
and  presence,  happy  in  the  promise  of  the  new 
guardianship  into  which  she  had  come.  What 
pretty  pictures  were  on  the  walls,  all  around  her, 
over  her  head ;  here  was  a  lady,  there  a  lovely  little 
girl ;  here  a  landscape ;  there  a  large  print  shewing 
a  horse  which  a  smith  is  just  about  shoeing,  and  a 
little  foal  standing  by.  And  so  her  eye  wandered, 
from  one  to  another,  every  one  having  its  peculiar 
interest  for  Rotha.  Then  the  books.  How  the 
books  were  piled  up,  on  the  floor,  on  the  dressing- 
table,  on  benches,  on  the  mantelpiece;  there  was  a 
kind  of  overflow  and  breaking  wave  of  literary 
riches  which  seemed  to  have  scattered  its  surplus 
about  this  room.  And  there  were  trinkets  too,  and 
pretty  useful  trifles,  and  pretty  things  of  use  that 
were  not  trifles.  Rotha  had  always  lived  in  a  very 
plain  way ;  her  father's  house  had  shewed  no  far- 
off  indication  of  this  sort  of  life.  Neither  had  her 
aunt's  house.  Plenty  of  means  was  not  wanting 
there ;  the  house  had  money  enough ;  what  it  lacked 
was  the  life.  No  love  of  the  beautiful ;  no  habit  of 
elegant  surroundings;  no  literary  taste  that  had 
any  tide  or  flow  whatsoever,  much  less  overflow. 
No  art,  and  no  associations.  Everything  here  had 
meaning,  and  indications  of  life,  or  associations 
with  it;  with  mental  life  especially.  What  exactly 


MRS.  MOWBRAY.  325 

it  was  that  charmed  her,  Rotha  could  not  have  told ; 
she  could  not  have  put  all  this  into  words;  yet 
she  felt  all  this.  The  girl  had  come  into  a  new 
atmosphere,  where  for  the  first  time  her  soul 
seemed  to  draw  free  breath.  It  was,  by  its  affin- 
ities, her  native  air.  Certainly  in  the  company 
of  Mr.  Southwode  all  this  higher  part  of  her 
nature  had  been  fed  and  fostered,  and  with  him 
too  she  was  at  home;  but  she  had  seen  him  only 
in  Mrs.  Marble's  house  or  in  the  lodgings  at  Fort 
Washington. 

It  was  long  before  Rotha  could  sleep.  She  waked 
as  the  day  was  declining  and  the  room  growing 
dusky.  A  maid  came  in  and  lit  the  fire,  which 
presently  sparkled  and  snapped  and  sent  forth  jets 
of  flame  which  lit  up  the  room  with  a  red  illumina- 
tion. Rotha  recognized,  she  thought,  the  sort  of 
coal  which  Mr.  Digby  had  sent  in  for  her  mother, 
and  hailed  the  sight;  but  she  was  mistaken,  a  lit- 
tle ;  it  was  kennal  coal,  not  Liverpool.  It  snapped 
and  shone,  and  the  light  danced  over  pictures  and 
books  and  curtains;  and  Rotha  wondered  what 
would  come  next. 

What  came  next  was  Miss  Blodgett,  followed  by 
the  maid  bearing  a  tray.  The  tray  was  placed  on 
a  stand  by  the  couch,  and  Rotha  was  informed  that 
this  was  her  dinner.  Mrs.  Mowbray  wished  her  to 
keep  quite  quiet  and  live  very  simply  until  this 
cold  was  broken  up.  Rotha  raised  herself  on  her 
couch  and  looked  in  astonishment  at  what  was 
before  her.  A  hot  mutton  chop,  a  roll,  a  cup  of 


326  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

tea,  and  some  mashed  potatoe.  A  napkin  was 
spread  over  the  tray ;  and  there  was  a  little  silver 
salt  cellar,  and  a  glass  of  water,  and  a  plate  of  rice 
pudding.  Ah,  surely  Kotha  was  in  fajryland;  and 
never  was  there  so  beneficent  and  so  magnificent 
a  fairy  in  human  shape.  Miss  Blodgett  saw  her 
arranged  to  her  mind,  and  left  her  to  take  her  din- 
ner in  peace  and  at  leisure;  which  Rotha  did,  almost 
ready  to  cry  for  sheer  pleasure.  When  had  dinner 
been  so  good  to  her  ?  Everything  was  so  hot  and 
BO  nice  and  so  prettily  served.  Kotha  lay  down 
again  feeling  half  cured  already. 

However,  such  well-grounded  colds  as  she  had 
taken  are  not  disposed  of  in  a  minute ;  and  Eotha's 
kept  her  shut  up  for  yet  several  days  more.  Won- 
ders went  on  multiplying ;  for  a  little  cot  bed  was 
brought  into  the  room,  (which  Rotha  found  was 
Mrs.  Mowbray's  own)  and  made  up  there  for  her 
occupancy ;  and  there  actually  she  slept  those  nights. 
And  Mrs.  Mowbray  nursed  her ;  gave  her  medicine, 
by  night  and  by  day;  sent  her  dainty  meals,  and 
allowed  her  to  amuse  herself  with  anything  she 
could  find.  Rotha  found  a  book  suited  to  her  pleas- 
ure, and  had  a  luxurious  time  of  it.  Towards  the 
end  of  the  second  day,  Mrs.  Mowbray  came  into 
the  room ;  a  little  while  before  dinner. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  "  she  said,  standing  and  sur- 
veying her  patient. 

"  Very  well,  ma'am ;  almost  quite  well." 

"  You  will  be  glad  to  be  let  out  of  prison  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  very  pleasant  prison." 


MRS.  MOWBRAY.  327 

"I  do  not  think  any  prison  is  pleasant.  What 
book  have  you  got  there  ?  Mrs.  Sherwood.  Do 
you  like  it  ?  " 

"  0  very  much,  ma'am  !  " 

"  My  dear,  your  aunt  has  sent  your  trunk,  at  my 
request;  and  Miss  Blodgett  has  unpacked  it  to  get 
at  the  things  you  were  wanting.     But  there  is  only 
one  warm  dress  in  it.     Is  that  your  whole  ward 
robe?" 

"  What  dress  is  that  ?  what  sort,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Grey  merino,  I  believe." 

"  It  is  not  mine,"  said  Eotha  flushing.  "  It  is 
Antoinette's.  They  tried  it  on,  but  it  did  not  fit 
me.  1  told  aunt  Serena  I  would  rather  wear  my 
own  old  one." 

"  That  is  the  one  you  are  wearing  now  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"My  dear,  is  that  your  whole  supply  for  the 
winter  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"I  observe  you  have  a  nice  supply  of  under 
wear." 

"Yes,  ma'am.  That  was  got  for  me  by  some- 
body else ;  not  my  aunt." 

"Have  you  other  relations  then,  besides  Mrs. 
Busby?"  * 

"No,  ma'am.     But  1  have  a  friend." 

"May  I  know  more,  since  you  have  begun  to 
confide  in  me  ?  Who  is  this  friend?" 

"  It  is  the  friend  mother  trusted  me  to,  when  she 
— when  she — " 


328  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Yes,  I  understand,"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray  gently. 
"Why  does  not  this  friend  take  care  of  you  then, 
instead  of  leaving  you  to  your  aunt  ?  " 

"  O  he  does  take  care  of  me,"  cried  Rotha ;  "  but 
he  is  in  England;  he  is  not  here.  He  had  to  go 
home  because  his  father  was  very  ill — dying,  I 
suppose." 

"He?"  repeated  Mrs.  Mowbray.  "A  gentle- 
man?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am.  He  was  the  only  friend  that  took 
care  of  mother.  He  got  those  things  for  me." 

"  What  is  his  name,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Digby.  I  mean,  Mr.  South wode.  I  always 
used  to  call  him  Mr.  Digby." 

"Digby  South  wode ! "  said  Mrs.  Mowbray.  "  But 
he  is  a  young  gentleman." 

"0  yes,"  said  Eotha.  "He  is  not  old.  He  was 
called  away,  back  to  England  suddenly,  and  aunt 
Serena  hindered  my  knowing,  and  hindered  him 
somehow  from  seeing  me  at  all  to  say  a  word  to 
me  before  he  went.  And  I  never  can  forgive  her 
for  it, — never,  never ! " 

"Hush,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray  softly. 
"Your  aunt  may  have  thought  she  had  good 
reasons.  How  came  you  under  your  aunt's  care 
then?" 

"Mr.  Digby  took  me  to  her,"  said  Rotha,  her  eyes 
filling,  while  they  sparkled  at  the  same  time.  "  He 
said  it  was  best  for  me  to  be  there,  under  her  care, 
as  he  had  no  home  where  he  could  take  me.  But 
if  he  had  known,  he  never  would  have  left  me  with 


MRS.  MOWBRAY.  329 

her.  I  know  he  would  not.  He  would  have  taken 
care  of  me  some  other  way." 

"  What  has  Mr.  Southwode  done  for  you,  that 
you  should  have  such  trust  in  him  ?  " 

But  Rotha  somehow  did  not  want  to  go  into  this 
subject  in  detail. 

"He  did  everything  for  us  that  a  friend  could 
do;  he  taught  me,  and  he  took  care  of  mother;  and 
mother  left  me  in  his  charge." 

"  Where  was  Mrs.  Busby  ?  " 

"  Just  where  she  is  now.  She  did  not  know  we 
were  here." 

"Why  was  that?" 

Rotha  hesitated.  "Mother  did  not  like  to  tell 
her,"  she  said,  somewhat  obscurely. 

"And  she  left  you  in  this  gentleman's  care." 

"Yes." 

"  And  he  put  you  under  your  aunt's  care." 

"Yes,  for  the  present.  But  I  was  to  tell  him 
if  anything  went  wrong;  and  I  have  never  been 
able  to  speak  a  word  to  him  since.  Nor  to  write, 
because  he  had  not  given  me  his  address." 

"  Mr.  Southwode  is  an  Englishman.  It  is  prob- 
able, if  his  father  is  dead,  that  he  will  make  his 
home  in  England  for  the  future." 

Rotha  was  silent.  She  thought  Mr.  Digby  would 
not  forget  her,  or  fail  in  his  promises ;  but  she  kept 
her  views  to  herself. 

"  He  did  very  properly  in  committing  you  to 
your  aunt's  care;  and  now  I  am  very  glad  I  have 
got  you,"  Mrs.  Mowbray  went  on  cheerily.  "  Now 


330  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

we  will  try  and  get  all  those  questions  straightened 
out,  that  were  troubling  you.  What  was  it?  a 
question  of  duty,  you  said,  didn't  you  ?  " 

Mrs.  Mowbray  was  arranging  her  heterogeneous 
masses  of  books  in  something  like  external  order; 
she  put  a  little  volume  into  Botha's  hand  as  she 
said  the  last  words.  It  was  a  very  small  New 
Testament;  very  small,  yet  in  the  clear  English 
printing  which  made  it  delightfully  legible.  "That 
is  the  best  thing  to  solve  questions  of  duty  with," 
she  went  on.  "  Keep  it,  my  dear." 

"  0  thank  you,  ma'am ! "  cried  Rotha,  a  bright 
colour  of  pleasure  rushing  into  her  cheeks.  "O 
thank  you,  ma'am !  How  beautiful !  and  how  nice! 
But  here  is  where  I  found  my  question,"  she  added 
sorrowfully. 

"  I  dare  say.  It  is  the  old  story — '  When  the 
commandment  came,  sin  revived,  and  I  died.' 
What  was  the  point  this  time  ?  " 

"Just  that  point  I  spoke  of,  about  aunt  Serena. 
I  do  not  forgive  her;  and  in  the  fifth  chapter  of 
Matthew, — here  it  is :  '  If  thou  bring  thy  gift  to  the 
altar—' " 

"  I  know,"  Mrs.  Mowbray  broke  in,  very  busy 
seemingly  with  her  books  and  not  looking  at  Ro- 
tha. "  Why  cannot  you  forgive  her  ?  " 

"Because  I  am  so  wrong,  I  suppose,"  Rotha 
answered  humbly. 

"  Yes,  but  what  has  she  done  ?  " 

"  I  told  you,  ma'am.  She  kept  me  from  seeing 
Mr.  Southwode  before  he  went  away.  She  never 


MRS.  MOWBRAY.  331 

even  told  me  he  had  been  at  the  house,  nor  that 
he  was  gone.  I  found  it  out.  She  meant  I  should 
not  see  him." 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray,  "that  does  not 
seem  to  me  a  very  heinous  offence." 

"  It  was  the  very  worst  thing-  she  could  do ;  the 
cruelest,  and  the  worst." 

"  She  might  have  thought  she  had  good  reasons." 

"  She  did  not  think  that.  She  knew  better.  I 
think  she  wanted  me  all  in  her  power." 

"  Never  think  evil  of  people,  if  it  is  possible  to 
think  good,"  Mrs.  Mowbray  continued.  "Always 
find  a  pleasant  reason  for  the  things  people  do, 
if  it  is  possible  to  find  one.  It  is  quite  as  likely 
to  be  true,  and  it  leaves  you  a  great  deal  more 
comfortable." 

"  You  cannot  always  do  that,"  said  Rotha. 

"  And  this  is  one  of  the  times  ?  Well,  what  are 
you  going  to  do  about  it  ?  Can't  you  forgive  your 
aunt,  even  if  you  think  the  worst?" 

"  It  would  be  very  easy  to  forgive  her,  if  I  could 
think  differently,"  said  Rotha. 

"It  occurs  to  me — Those  words  you  began  to 
quote, — they  run,  I  think,  'If  thy  brother  hath 
ought  against  tliee?  Is  that  the  case  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  because  1  charged  her  with  what 
she  had  done;  and  she  did  not  excuse  herself;  and 
I  thought  I  had  a  right  to  be  angry — very  angry; 
but  when  I  came  to  those  words  in  my  reading, 
I  remembered  that  though  I  had  so  much  against 
her,  she  had  a  little  against  me;  because  I  had  not 


332  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

spoken  just  right.  And  then  I  knew  I  ought  to 
confess  it  and  make  an  apology;  and  I  was  so 
angry  I  could  not." 

"  And  do  you  feel  so  now  ? "  Mrs.  Mowbray 
asked  after  a  slight  pause. 

"  Just  the  same." 

"  Do  you  think  you  are  a  Christian,  Kotha  ?  " 

"No,  ma'am.  I  know — a  Christian  does  His 
commandments,"  the  girl  answered  low. 

"  Do  you  want  to  be  a  Christian  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  if  I  could ;  but  how  can  I  ?  " 

"  You  cannot,  while  your  will  goes  against  God's 
will." 

"  Can  I  help  my  will  ?  "  said  Kotha,  bringing  up 
her  old  question. 

"There  is  the  dinner-bell,"  said  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray.  "  If  I  can  get  a  little  time  this  evening,  I 
will  try  to  shew  you  the  answer  to  your  ques- 
tion. I  must  go  now,  my  dear.  Read  your  New 
Testament." 

Rotha  curled  herself  up  on  her  coucn,  and  by 
the  light  of  the  kennal  coal  did  read  her  Testa- 
ment; full  of  delight  that  it  was  hers,  and  full  of 
comfort  in  the  hope  that  after  all  there  would  be 
a  way  for  her  out  of  her  difficulties. 

Then  came  her  dinner.  Such  a  nice  dinner  it 
was;  and  served  with  a  delicacy  and  order  which 
charmed  Rotha.  She  eat  it  alone,  but  missing 
nothing;  having  a  sense  of  shelter  and  hiding 
from  all  roughnesses  of  people  and  things,  that 
was  infinitely  soothing.  She  eat  her  dinner,  and 


MRS.  MOWBRAY.  333 

hoped  for  Mrs.  Mowbray's  return.  Waiting  how- 
ever in  vain.  Mrs.  Mowbray  came  not.  The  room 
was  bright;  the  fire  burned;  the  cheerful  shine 
was  upon  everything;  Rotha  was  full  of  comfort 
in  things  external;  if  she  only  could  settle  and 
quiet  this  question  in  her  heart.  Yes,  this  ques- 
tion was  everything.  Were  she  but  a  child  of 
God,  secure  and  established, — yes,  not  that  only, 
but  pure  and  good, —  like  Mr.  Digby;  then,  all 
would  be  right.  Then  she  would  be  happy.  With 
that  question  unsettled,  Rotha  did  not  feel  that 
even  Mrs.  Mowbray  could  make  her  so. 

Late  in  the  evening  Mrs.  Mowbray  came.  Her 
arms  were  full  of  packages. 

"I  could  not  get  free  before,"  she  said,  as  she 
shut  the  door  behind  her.  "I  had  an  errand — and 
then  company  kept  me.  Well,  my  dear !  have  you 
had  a  pleasant  evening,  all  alone  ?  " 

"  I  like  to  be  alone  sometimes,"  Rotha  replied  a 
little  evasively. 

"Do  you!  Now  I  like  company;  unless  I  have 
something  to  do.  Perhaps  that  was  your  case,  eh? " 

"Yes,  ma'am,  it  was." 

"And  did  you  accomplish  it? — what  you  had 
to  do." 

"  No,  ma'am." 

"You  must  take  me  into  your  counsels.  See 
here — how  do  you  like  that  ?  " 

She  had  drawn  up  a  chair  to  the  side  of  Rotha's 
couch,  and  opening  one  of  the  packages  on  her 
lap,  transferred  it  to  Rotha's.  It  was  the  fashion 


334  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

then  for  young  people  to  wear  woollen  stuffs  of 
bright  plaid  patterns ;  and  this  was  a  piece  of  choc- 
olate and  black  with  a  thread  of  gold  colour;  soft 
and  beautiful  and  rich  tinted.  "  How  do  you  like 
that?"  Mrs.  Mowbray  repeated;  and  Rotha  an- 
swered that  she  thought  it  very  beautiful. 

"  Don't  you  think  that  would  make  you  a  nice 
school  dress?  and  here — how  would  this  do  for 
company  days?" 

As  she  spoke,  she  laid  upon  the  chocolate  plaid 
another  package,  containing  a  dark  brown  poplin, 
heavy  and  lustrous.  Poor  Rotha  looked  up  bewil- 
dered to  the  lady's  face,  which  was  beaming  and 
triumphant. 

"Like  it?"  she  said  gleefully.  "I  couldn't  tell 
your  taste,  you  know.  I  had  to  go  by  my  own 
Don't  you  think  that  would  become  you  ?  " 

"  Me  ?  "  said  Rotha. 

"  Yes.  You  see,  we  cannot  wait  for  your  aunt's 
slow  motions,  and  you  must  be  clothed.  Do  you 
like  it,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  I  like  it  very  much — of  course — they  are  most 
beautiful;  but — will  aunt  Serena  give  you  the 
money,  Mrs.  Mowbray?" 

"  I  shall  not  ask  her,"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray  laugh- 
ing. "  You  need  not  say  anything  about  it,  to  her 
or  anybody  else.  It  is  our  affair.  Now  here  is  a 
warm  skirt,  my  dear;  I  want  to  keep  you  warm 
while  you  are  in  my  house,  and  you  are  not  suffi- 
ciently armed  against  the  cold  weather.  I  don't 
want  to  have  you  catching  any  more  colds.  You 


MRS.  MOWBRAY.  335 

see,  this  is  for  my  interest.  Now  with  that  you 
will  be  as  warm  as  a  toast." 

It  was  a  beautiful  petticoat  of  scarlet  cloth ;  soft 
and  thick.  Rotha  looked  at  the  pile  of  things  ly- 
ing on  her  lap,  and  was  absolutely  dumb.  Mrs. 
Mowbray  bent  forward  and  kissed  her  cheek. 

"  I  think  you  will  be  well  enough  to  go  out  by 
Saturday — and  I  will  let  Miss  Jewett  go  with  you 
to  a  dress-maker  and  have  these  things  made  up  at 
once.  Is  there  any  particular  dress-maker  who  is 
accustomed  to  work  for  you  ?  " 

"No,"  Rotha  said  first,  and  then  immediately 
added — "Yes!  I  forgot;  the  one  who  made  my 
summer  dresses,  that  I  had  in  the  summer."  That 
Mr.  Southwode  got  for  me,  she  had  been  about  to 
say;  but  she  checked  herself.  Some  fine  instinct 
made  her  perceive  that  the  mention  of  that  gentle- 
man's name  was  not  received  with  absolute  favour. 
She  thought  Mrs.  Mowbray  did  not  approve  of 
Mr.  Southwode. 

"And  now,  my  dear,"  said  that  lady,  as  she 
swept  away  the  packages  of  goods  from  Rotha's 
lap,  "what  about  your  question  of  conscience?" 

"  It  remains  a  question,  ma'am." 

"  Not  settled  yet  ?     What  makes  the  difficulty  ?  " 

"  I  told  you,  ma'am.  I  did  not  speak  quite  as  I 
ought  to  my  aunt,  one  or  two  times,  and  so — she 
has  something  against  me;  and  I  cannot  pray." 

"Cannot  pray,  my  dear!  that  is  dreadful.  I 
should  die  if  I  could  not  pray.  The  Bible  says, 
pray  always." 


336  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"But  it  says,  here,  'if  thy  brother  hath  ought 
against  thee,  leave  there  thy  gift  before  the  altar, 
and  go  thy  way;  first  be  reconciled  to  thy  brother, 
and  then  come  and  offer  thy  gift.' " 

"Let  me  see  that  place,"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray. 
She  sat  down  beside  Kotha  and  took  the  little 
Testament  out  of  her  hand,  and  considered  the 
passage. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  she  said  at  last, — "  and  so  you 
think  these  words  forbid  you  to  pray  ?  " 

"  Do  they  not  ?  "  said  Kotha,  "  until  I  could  rec- 
oncile myself  to  aunt  Serena?  or  at  least  try." 

"What  is  the  matter  between  you  and  your 
aunt  ?  " 

"I  do  not  know.  I  cannot  tell  what  makes  her 
do  so." 

"Do  what?" 

"Hide   me  from  the   only  friend  I  have  got." 

"  You  mean  that  gentleman  ?  My  dear,  she  may 
have  had  very  good  reasons  for  that  ?  " 

"  She  could  not  have  good  reasons  for  it,"  said 
Rotha  flushing. 

"My  dear,  old  people  often  see  things  that  young 
people  do  not  see,  and  cannot  judge  of." 

"You  do  not  know  Mr.  South wode,  ma'am. 
Anyhow,  I  do  not  feel  as  if  1  could  ever  forgive 
her." 

"  That  makes  it  difficult  for  you  to  go  and  ask 
her  pardon,  hey?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 


MRS.  MOWBRAY.  337 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Rotha  sadly. 

"  It  is  too  late  for  us  to  talk  longer  to-night.  I 
will  shew  you  a  Bible  to-morrow — stop,  there  is  no 
time  like  the  present — " 

Mrs.  Mowbray  rose  and  went  to  a  table  from 
which  she  brought  a  little  volume.  "This  will  do 
better,"  she  said.  "  I  have  a  Bible  in  which  all  this, 
in  this  book,  is  arranged  in  reference  columns;  but 
this  is  more  convenient.  You  can  use  this  with 
your  own  Bible,  or  any  Bible.  I  am  going  to  give 
you  this,  my  dear."  And  she  fetched  a  pen  as  she 
spoke  and  entered  Rotha's  name  on  the  title  page,, 
with  the  date  of  day  and  month  and  year.  Then 
she  went  on — "Now  see,  Rotha;  here  is  what  will 
give  light  on  your  question.  Here  are  references 
from  every  verse  in  the  Bible  to  other  parts 
and  other  verses  which  explain  or  illustrate  it. 
Find  your  place, — what  is  it  ? — Mat.  v.  24,  is  it  ? — 
here;  now  see,  here  are  references  to  other  pas- 
sages, and  from  them  you  will  find  references  to 
still  others.  Take  this  to-morrow  and  study  it  out, 
and  pray,  my  dear.  You  cannot  get  along  with- 
out praying." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

SCHOOL. 

"T)  OTHA  received  the  book  with  an  access  of  pleas- 
IV  tire,  which  expressed  itself  however  mainly 
in  sparkling  eyes  and  the  red  tinge  of  excitement 
in  her  cheeks.  She  did  say  some  words  of  thanks, 
but  they  were  not  fluent,  as  customary  with  her 
when  any  great  degree  of  delight  was  pressing  for 
utterance.  Then  speech  was  poor.  Mrs.  Mow  bray 
did  not  miss  it;  she  could  read  the  signs,  and  was 
satisfied.  But  long  after  she  was  asleep,  Rotha  lay 
on  her  cot  with  eyes  wide  open,  staring  at  the  re- 
mains of  the  fire.  What  had  come  to  her  ?  what 
strange,  enchantment-like,  fabulous,  change  of  cir- 
cumstances? and  this  dispenser  and  contriver  of 
happiness,  slumbering  peacefully  on  the  bed  yonder, 
what  was  she  but  a  very  fairy  of  blessing,  bringing 
order  out  of  disorder  and  comfort  out  of  the  very 
depths  of  confusion.  A  home,  and  a  friend,  and 
nice  dresses,  and  study,  and  books!  Two  books 
to-day !  Rotha  was  too  happy  to  sleep. 

The  next  day  she  began  school  duties  again ;  but 
Mrs.  Mowbray  would  not  have  her  join  the  family 
at  meals,  until,  as  she  said,  she  had  something  com- 
(338) 


SCHOOL.  339 

fortable  to  wear.  -Botha  was  thankful  for  the  kind 
thoughtfulness  that  spared  her  feelings;  and  in  re- 
turn bent  herself  to  her  appointed  tasks  with  an 
energy  which  soon  disposed  of  them.  However, 
they  took  all  her  time,  for  Mrs.  Mowbray  had  intro- 
duced her  to  another  part  of  the  school  and  a  much 
more  advanced  class  of  the  pupils.  This  of  itself 
gave  her  new  spirit.  The  following  day  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray,  as  she  had  promised,  sent  her  with  one  of  the 
under  teachers  to  have  her  dresses  cut  out.  They 
went  in  a  carriage,  and  drove  to  Mrs.  Marble's. 
Mrs.  Marble  wore  a  doubtful  countenance. 

"  Well,  it  is  time  you  had  something  warmer,  if 
you've  got  nothing  more  made  since  those  lawns. 
Where's  Mr.  Digby  ?  " 

"In  England." 

"  England  !  Don't  say !  And  who's  taking  care 
of  you?" 

"Miss  Carpenter  is  in  Mrs.  Mowbray's  family," 
said  Miss  Jewett  stiffly. 

"Mrs.  Mowbray,  hey?  what,  the  great  school? 
You  are  in  luck,  Botha.  Did  Mr.  Digby  put  you 
there?" 

"  He  did  not  choose  the  school,"  said  Botha.  "  I 
went  to  the  same  place  where  my  cousin  went. 
Mrs.  Marble,  that's  too  tight." 

"It'll  look  a  great  deal  handsomer,  Botha.  Slim 
waists  are  what  all  the  ladies  want." 

"I  can't  be  pinched,"  said  Botha,  lifting  and 
lowering  her  shoulders  in  the  exultation  of  free 
play.  "  I  would  rather  be  comfortable." 


340  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  It  does  look  better,  to  be  snug,  Miss  Carpen- 
ter," said  Miss  Jewett,  taking  the  mantua-maker's 
part. 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Eotha.  "I  must  have  room 
to  breathe.  Make  it  loose  enough,  Mrs.  Marble, 
or  it  will  just  come  back  to  you  to  be  altered." 

"You're  as  masterful  as  you  just  was,  and  as  I 
always  thought  you  would  be,"  said  the  mantua- 
maker.  "  I  suppose  you  think  times  is  changed." 

"They  are  very  much  changed,  Mrs.  Marble," 
said  Kotha  calmly.  "But  I  always  had  my  dresses 
loose." 

"And  everything  else  about  you! — "  muttered 
the  dress-maker.  However,  she  was  never  an  ill- 
natured  woman,  and  took  her  orders  with  tolerable 
equanimity. 

"  You  are  the  first  young  lady  I  ever  saw  try- 
ing on  dresses,  who  did  not  want  them  to  fit 
nicely,"  Miss  Jewett  remarked  as  they  we>re  driv- 
ing away. 

"  But  I  could  not  breathe  !  "  said  Kotha.  "  I  like 
to  be  comfortable." 

"Different  people  have  different  notions  of  com- 
fort," was  the  comment,  not  admiring.  But  Eotha 
did  not  give  the  matter  another  thought. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  "  You  will  not  go  to 
church,  dear,"  Mrs.  Mowbray  had  whispered.  "I 
shall  not  ask  you  till  you  have  something  to  keep 
you  warm.  Have  you  a  thick  outer  coat  ?  " 

Eotha  explained.  Her  aunt  had  been  about  to 
get  her  one  two  or  three  weeks  ago ;  then  they  had 


SCHOOL.  341 

had  their  falling  out,  and  since  then  she  had  heard 
no  more  on  the  subject. 

"  We  will  get  things  in  order  by  next  Sunday. 
You  can  study  at  home  to-day,  and  maybe  that 
will  be  the  best  thing  for  you." 

It  was  the  most  welcome  order  Eotha  could 
have  received.  She  went  up  to  Mrs.  Mowbray^s 
room,  which  she  still  inhabited,  and  took  Bible 
and  New  Testament  and  her  newly  acquired  pos- 
session, which  she  found  bore  title,  "  The  Treasury 
of  Scripture  Knowledge,"  and  sat  down  on  the 
couch.  It  was  all  so  comfortable  around  her  that 
Rotha  paused  to  look  and  think  and  enjoy.  Hid 
away,  she  felt;  safe  and  secure  from  all  disturb- 
ances; her  aunt  could  not  worry  her,  Antoinette 
could  not  even  look  at  her;  nobody  could  interfere 
with  her;  and  the  good  fairy  of  her  life  would 
come  in  only  to  help  and  shelter  her.  The  warm 
air;  poor  Rotha  had  been  inhabiting  a  region  of 
frost,  it  must  be  remembered,  material  as  well 
as  spiritual;  the  slight  sweet  perfume  that  per- 
vaded the  room  and  came,  Rotha  knew  not  from 
what;  the  pretty,  cosy  look  of  the  place,  furniture, 
fire,  pictures  and  all; — Rotha  sat  looking  and  feel- 
ing in  a  maze  of  astonishment.  That  all  this 
should  be,  geographically,  so  near  Mrs.  Busby's 
house !  With  a  breath  of  admiring  delight,  at 
last  Rotha  turned  to  her  books.  Yes,  if  she  could 
get  that  question  settled — 

She  opened  her  "Treasury  of  Scripture  Knowl- 
edge" and  found  the  fifth  chapter  of  Matthew; 


342  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

then  the  24th  verse.     The  first  reference  here  was 
to  Mat.  xviii.  15-17. 

That  does  not  tell  me  anything,  thought  Rotha. 
I  cannot  go  to  aunt  Serena  and  tell  her  her  fault; 
it  would  be  no  use;  and  besides,  that  is  what  I 
have  done  already,  only  not  so,  I  suppose. — Then 
followed  a  passage  from  Job  and  one  from  Prov- 
erbs, which  did  not,  she  thought,  meet  her  case. 
Then  in  Mark  ix.  50  she  found  the  command  to 
"have  peace  one  with  another."  But  what  if  I  can- 
not ? — thought  Rotha.  Next,  in  Romans,  the  word 
was  "Recompense  to  no  man  evil  for  evil";  and,  "If 
it  be  possible,  as  much  as  lieth  in  you,  live  peace- 
ably with  all  men."  This  at  first  caused  some  ex- 
ultation, which  evaporated  upon  further  reflection. 
Had  it  not  been  possible?  If  she  had  been  pa- 
tient, forgiving,  sweet;  if  she  had  spoken  and 
looked  accordingly;  would  there  not  have  been 
peace?  Her  aunt  at  least  would  have  had  nothing 
against  her.  Her  own  cause  of  grievance  would 
have  remained;  might  she  not  have  forgiven  that? 
A  resolute  negative  answered  this  gentle  sugges- 
tion of  conscience;  like  Jonah  in  the  case  of  his 
gourd,  Rotha  said  to  herself  she  did  well  to  be 
angry.  At  least  that  Mrs.  Busby  deserved  it;  for 
conscience  would  not  allow  the  conclusion  that 
she  had  done  "well,"  at  all.  It  was  not  as  Mr. 
Digby  would  have  done.  He  was  Rotha's  living 
commentary  on  the  word.  She  went  on.  The 
next  passage  forbade  going  to  law  before  unbe- 
lievers. Then  came  a  word  or  two  from  the  first 


SCHOOL.  343 

epistle  of  Timothy;  an  injunction  to  "pray  every- 
where, lifting  up  holy  hands,  without  wrath — " 

Rotha  got  no  further.  That  arrow  struck  home. 
She  must  not  pray  with  anger  in  her  heart.  Then 
she  must  forgive,  unconditionally;  for  it  would 
never  do  to  intermit  all  praying  until  somebody 
else  should  come  to  a  right,  mind.  Give  up  her 
anger !  It  made  Botha's  blood  boil  to  think  of  it. 
How  could  she,  with  her  blood  boiling  ?  And  till 
she  did — she  might  not  think  to  pray  and  be  heard. 

O  why  is  it  so  hard  to  be  a  Christian !  why  is  it 
made  so  difficult! 

Then  Rotha' s  conscience  whispered  that  the  dif- 
ficulty was  of  her  own  making;  if  she  were  all 
right,  that  would  be  all  easy.  She  would  go  on, 
she  thought,  with  her  comparison  of  Bible  pas- 
sages ;  perhaps  she  would  come  to  something  that 
would  help.  The  next  passage  referred  to  was 
in  James. 

"But  if  ye  have  bitter  envying  and  strife  in 

your  hearts,  glory  not This  wisdom  de- 

scendeth  not  from  above,  but  is  earthly,  sensual, 
devilish.  For  where  envying  and  strife  are,  there 
is  confusion  and  every  evil  work." 

"Devilish"!  well,  I  suppose  it  is,  Rotha  con- 
fessed to  herself.  "  Envying  " — I  am  not  envy- 
ing; but  "strife" — aunt  Serena  and  I  have  that 
between  us.  And  so  "  there  is  confusion  and  every 
evil  work."  I  suppose  there  is.  But  how  am  I 
to  help  it?  I  cannot  stop  my  anger. — She  went 
on  to  the  next  reference.  It  was, 


344  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"Confess  your  faults  one  to  another,  and  pray 
one  for  another,  that  ye  may  be  healed." 

The  Bible  was  all  against  her.  Tears  began  to 
well  up  into  Rotha's  eyes.  She  thought  she  would 
see  what  the  words  were  about  forgiving.  Her 
eye  had  caught  the  Lord's  prayer  on  the  next  leaf. 
She  turned  to  that  place  in  her  reference  book. 
And  here,  first  of  all,  the  words  of  the  prayer  it- 
self struck  her,  and  then  the  14th  and  15th  verses 
below.  It  was  a  dead  lock!  If  she  could  not 
forgive,  she  could  not  be  forgiven ;  sharp  and  clear 
the  sentence  ran ;  there  was  no  mistaking  it,  there 
could  be  no  glossing  it  over.  Rotha's  tears  silently 
rose  and  fell,  hot  and  sorrowful.  She  did  want 
to  be  forgiven;  but  to  forgive,  no.  With  tears 
dripping  before  her  Bible,  she  would  not  let  them 
fall  on  it,  she  studied  a  passage  referred  to,  in  the 
18th  of  Matthew,  where  Peter  was  directed  to  set 
no  bounds  to  his  overlooking  of  injuries,  and  the 
parable  of  the  unmerciful  servant  is  brought  up. 
Rotha  studied  that  chapter  long.  The  right  and 
the  truth  she  saw  clearly;  but  as  soon  as  she 
thought  of  applying  them  to  her  aunt  Busby,  her 
soul  rose  up  in  arms.  She  has  done  me  the  cruel- 
est  and  the  meanest  of  wrongs,  said  the  girl  to 
herself;  cruel  beyond  all  telling;  what  she  deserves 
is  to  be  well  shaken  by  the  shoulders.  Go  to  her 
and  say  that  /  have  done  wrong  to  her  and  ask 
her  to  forgive  me,  and  so  help  her  to  forget  her 
own  doings — I  cannot. — Rotha  made  a  common 
mistake,  the  sophistry  of  passion,  which  is  the 


SCHOOL.  345 

same  thing  as  the  devil's  sophistry.  Her  confes- 
sing and  doing  right,  would  have  been  the  very 
likeliest  way  to  make  Mrs.  Busby  ashamed  of 
herself. 

However,  Rotha  went  on  with  her  study.  Two 
passages  struck  her  particularly,  in  Ephesians  and 
Colossians.  The  first — "Be  ye  kind  one  to  an- 
other, tender-hearted,  forgiving  one  another,  even 
as  God  for  Christ's  sake  hath  forgiven  you."  The 
other  to  the  same  purport,  in  Col.  iii.  13. 

But  he  has  not  forgiven  me,  cried  Rotha  in 
her  heart,  while  the  tears  poured ; — he  will  not  for- 
give me,  unless  I  forgive  her. — "  But  he  is  ready 
to  forgive  you,"  the  very  words  before  her  pro- 
claimed. It  was  a  dead  lock,  nevertheless;  and 
when  Mrs.  Mowbray  came  home  from  church  she 
found,  to  her  surprise,  Rotha  still  bending  over 
her  Bible  with  her  tears  dripping  on  the  floor. 
Mrs.  Mowbray  took  off  her  hat  and  cloak  before 
she  said  a  word.  Then  coming  to  Rotha' s  side  on 
the  couch,  she  put  one  arm  round  her. 

"My  dear,"  she  said  gently,  "what  is  the  matter?" 

The  tone  and  the  touch  were  so  sympathizing, 
so  tender,  that  Rotha  answered  by  an  affectionate, 
clinging  gesture,  taking  care  at  the  same  time 
that  none  of  her  tears  fell  on  Mrs.  Mowbray's  rich 
silk.  For  a  little  space  she  made  no  other  answer. 
When  she  spoke,  it  was  with  a  passionate  accent. 

"  Madame,  if  I  am  ever  to  be  a  Christian,  I  must 
be  made  all  over  new  !  " 

"  That  is  nothing  uncommon,"  the  lady  replied. 


346  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  It  is  every  one's  case.  So  the  Bible  says ;  '  If  any 
man  be  in  Christ,  he  is  a  new  creature.' " 

"But  how  am  I  to  get  made  over  all  new?" 
Rotha  cried. 

"  That  is  the  Holy  Spirit's  work.  '  Except  a  man 
be  born  again,  he  cannot  see  the  kingdom  of  God.' " 

"  Then  must  I  ask  for  him  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"But  if  I  do  not  forgive  aunt  Serena,  it  is  no 
use  for  me  to  pray  ?  " 

"  Nay,  Rotha,  if  that  were  true  we  should  be  in 
a  bad  case  indeed.  If  you  read  the  fifteenth  chap- 
ter of  Luke,  you  will  find  that  when  the  prodigal 
son  was  returning,  his  father  saw  him  while  he  teas 
yet  a  great  way  off;  and  ran  and  fell  on  his  neck 
and  kissed  him.  If  you  are  truly  setting  yourself 
to  seek  God,  you  will  find  him ;  and  if  you  are  in 
earnest  in  wishing  to  do  his  will,  he  will  enable 
you  to  do  it.  You  must  always  ask,  my  dear. 
The  Bible  says,  '  the  Lord  over  all  is  rich  unto  all — ' 
not,  that  are  perfect,  but — 'that  call  upon  him."' 

"  But  it  says,  '  if  ye  do  not  forgive,  neither  will 
your  heavenly  Father  forgive  you.' " 

"True;  but  he  will  give  you  that  new  nature 
you  say  you  must  have;  and  then  forgiving  will 
be  easy." 

Rotha  looked  up,  partly  comforted.  And  from 
that  time  she  prayed  for  a  new  nature. 

A  few  days  more  saw  her  school  dress  finished 
and  at  home.  It  looked  magnificent  to  Rotha;  far 
too  good  for  a  school  dress.  But  Mrs.  Mowbray 


SCHOOL.  347 

said  no;  she  must  look  nice  in  school  as  well  as 
anywhere;  and  that  very  evening  she  brought  to 
Rotha  a  box  full  of  neat  collars  and  cuffs  and  ruffles; 
some  of  plain  linen  and  some  of  lighter  and  prettier 
manufacture.  The  supply  was  most  abundant;  and 
with  these  things  were  some  ribbands  of  various 
colours  and  little  silk  neck  ties.  Rotha  received 
them  in  the  same  mute  way  of  speechless  gratitude 
and  delight;  and  resolved  one  thing ;  that  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray  should  have  nothing  to  complain  of  in  her, 
whether  regarding  school  duties  or  anything  else. 

Another  thing  Mrs.  Mowbray  did  for  Rotha  that 
week.  Calling  Antoinette  Busby  to  her,  at  the 
close  of  a  lesson,  she  said,  "  My  dear,  among  the 
things  sent  round  from  your  house  for  your  cousin's 
use,  there  is  no  coat  or  cloak  for  cold  weather  wear. 
Will  you  tell  your  mother,  Rotha's  coat  has  not  been 
brought  with  the  rest  of  her  things  ?  Thank  you. 
That  is  all,  my  dear." 

Antoinette  went  home  in  a  good  deal  of  a  flus- 
ter, and  told  her  mother.  Mrs.  Busby  looked  im- 
penetrable. 

"  Now  mamma,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about 
it?" 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"  I  said  nothing.     What  could  I  say  ?  " 

"  Did  you  see  Rotha  ?  " 

"No;  she  is  up  stairs,  getting  nursed  for  her 
cold." 

"Stuff!" 

"  Well,  she  had  a  cold,  mamma.     Mrs.  Mowbray 


348  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

always  finds  out  if  the  girls  are  shamming.  She 
is  sharp  enough." 

"  Kotha  is  no  more  ill  than  I  am." 

"Mrs.  Mowbray  always  sends  a  girl  off  to  her 
room  if  she  is  out  of  sorts,  and  coddles  her  up  with 
pills  and  tea.  She  don't  do  it  unless  she  sees 
reason." 

"  Why  didn't  you  ask  to  see  Rotha  ?  It  would 
have  looked  better." 

"  I  never  thought  of  it,"  said  Antoinette  laugh- 
ing. "Because,  really,  I  didn't  want  to  see  her.  I 
should  rather  think  I  didn't ! " 

"  You  had  better  ask  to-morrow." 

"Very  well.  And  what  shall  I  say  about  the 
coat?" 

"I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  get  her  one,"  Mrs. 
Busby  said  grimly. 

"  Then  she  will  want  a  hat,  mamma." 

"I'll. send  your  grey  plush." 

"She  won't  wear  it." 

"  Mrs.  Mowbray  will  make  her.  She  won't  hear 
nonsense." 

"Who  does,  mamma?     Not  you,  I  am  sure." 

Having  to  do  the  thing,  Mrs.  Busby  did  it  well, 
for  her  own  sake.  She  would  have  let  Rotha  stay 
within  doors  all  winter;  but  if  she  must  get  her  a 
cloak,  it  should  never  be  said  she  got  her  a  poor 
one.  Accordingly,  the  next  day  two  boxes  were 
sent  round  to  Mrs.  Mowbray's;  one  containing  the 
rejected  hat,  the  other  a  warm  and  handsome  cloak, 
which  Mrs.  Busby  got  cheap  because  it  was  one  of 


SCHOOL.  3±9 

the  last  year's  goods,  of  a  fashion  a  little  obsolete. 
Antoinette  asked  leave  to  see  Rotha,  that  same  day, 
and  was  refused.  Mrs.  Mowbray  wished  her  to  be 
left  quite  to  herself.  So  the  next  time  the  cousins 
met  was  in  class,  a  day  or  two  later.  It  was  a  class 
to  which  Mrs.  Mowbray  herself  gave  a  lesson ;  it 
was  a  class  of  the  more  advanced  scholars;  and 
Antoinette,  who  had  left  her  cousin  in  a  lower  de- 
partment, among  Miss  Blodgett's  pupils,  was  ex- 
ceedingly astonished  to  see  Eotha  come  in  among 
the  young  ladies  of  the  family  and  take  her  seat  in 
the  privileged  library  where  these  lessons  were 
given.  Yet  more  was  Antoinette  astonished  at  her 
cousin's  transformation.  Eotha  was  dressed  well, 
in  the  abovementioned  chocolate  plaid;  her  linen 
collar  and  cuffs  were  white  and  pretty  like  other 
people's;  the  dress  was  well  made;  Rotha's  abundant 
dark  hair,  now  growing  long,  was  knotted  up  loosely 
at  the  back  of  her  head,  her  collar  was  tied  with  a 
little  cherry  coloured  bow;  and  her  whole  figure 
was  striking  and  charming.  Antoinette,  who  was 
an  acknowledged  beauty,  felt  a  pang  of  displeasure. 
In  fact  she  was  so  much  disturbed  and  annoyed 
that  her  mind  was  quite  distracted  from  the  busi- 
ness in  hand;  she  paid  little  attention  to  the  lesson 
and  rather  got  into  disgrace.  Rotha  on  the  con- 
trary, entering  the  class  and  enjoying  the  teaching 
for  the  first  time,  was  full  of  delighted  interest; 
forgot  even  her  new  dress  and  herself  altogether; 
took  acute,  intelligent  part  in  the  discussion  that 
went  on,  (the  'subject  being  historical)  and  at  one 


350  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

bound  unconsciously  placed  herself  at  the  head  of 
the  class.  There  was  no  formal  taking  rank,  but 
the  judgment  of  all  present  involuntarily  gave  her 
the  place.  And  Mrs.  Mowbray  herself  had  some 
difficulty  not  to  look  too  often  towards  the  face  that 
always  met  hers  with  such  sympathy  and  life  in 
every  feature.  Many  there  indeed  were  interested ; 
yet  no  eyes  shewed  such  intelligent  fire,  no  lips 
were  so  expressive  in  their  play,  no  interest  was  so 
evidently  unalloyed  with  any  thought  of  self-con- 
sciousness. 

As  the  girls  scattered,  after  the  hour  was  over, 
the  cousins  met. 

"  Well ! "  said  Antoinette,  "  what's  come  over 
you?" 

The  tone  was  not  pleasant.  Rotha  asked  her 
distantly  what  she  meant  ? 

"Why  I  left  you  one  thing,  and  I  find  you  an- 
other," said  Antoinette.  "  How  did  you  get  here  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Mowbray  desired  it.  I  came  to  school  to 
study,  Antoinette.  Why  should  I  not  be  here?" 

"But  how  could  you  be  here?  These  are  the 
upper  girls." 

Rotha  laughed  a  little.    She  felt  very  gay-hearted. 

"  And  where  did  you  get  this  ?  "  Antoinette  went 
on,  feeling  of  a  fold  of  Rotha's  dress.  "What 
beautiful  cashmere !  Where  did  you  get  it  ?  " 

"  There  came  a  good  fairy  to  my  room  one  night, 
and  astonished  me." 

"A  fairy! "  said  Antoinette. 

"  Yes,  the  days  of  fairies  are  not  over.     I  thought 


SCHOOL.  351 

they  were,  but  I  was  mistaken,"  said  Kotha  joy- 
ously. "  I  do  not  think  there  is  anything  much 
pleasanter,  than  to  have  a  good  fairy  come  and 
visit  you." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Just  that.  Good  bye — the  girls  are  going  out 
to  walk,  and  I  must  get  ready  to  go  along." 

She  tripped  up  the  stairs,  leaving  Antoinette 
mystified  and  crestfallen.  Under  pretence  of  col- 
lecting her  books,  she  lingered  in  one  of  the  class 
rooms  in  the  lower  story,  waiting  to  see  the  girls  pass 
out,  which  they  always  did,  she  knew,  by  the  lower 
door.  They  came  presently  in  long  file.  The 
families  that  sent  their  daughters  to  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray's  were  generally  of  the  wealthier  portions  of 
society;  and  it  was  a  well  dressed  set  that  defiled 
before  Antoinette's  eyes;  too  well,  for  many  of 
them  were  unbecomingly  fine.  Antoinette  did  not 
recognize  her  cousin  until  she  was  quite  out  upon 
the  street  and  turned  her  face  casually  to  speak  to 
some  one  behind  her.  The  new  cloak,  of  dark 
green  stun7,  was  as  handsome  as  Antoinette's  own ; 
and  there  was  no  old  grey  plush  hat  above  it.  No 
such  matter;  a  neat  little  green  hat,  perfectly 
simple,  but  new  and  well  made  and  well  fitting, 
shaded  a  face  full  of  merry  sparkle,  totally  unlike 
the  depressed,  cloudy  expression  Antoinette  had 
been  used  to  despise  at  home.  She  told  her  mother 
with  an  injured  air  what  she  had  seen.  Mrs.  Busby 
said  nothing.  It  was  vexatious;  at  the  same  time 
she  reflected  that  the  credit  of  all  this  would  re- 


352  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

dound  to  herself  Nobody  but  Mrs.  Mowbray  and 
Kotha  herself  knew  whence  came  the  dresses  and 
bonnet,  and  they  would  not  tell,  naturally.  On 
the  whole  the  gain  was  as  great  as  the  loss. 

But  to  Eotha  now-a-days  it  was  all  gain.  That 
walk  with  the  girls;  how  pleasant  it  was,  to  go 
with  free  step,  conscious  that  there  was  nothing  in 
her  appearance  to  draw  remark  or  provoke  pity.  At 
Rotha's  age,  perhaps  as  much  as  ever,  such  an  im- 
munity is  prized  and  enjoyed.  It  was  such  a  walk 
as  till  then  she  had  never  taken  in  the  streets  of 
New  York;  for  even  when,  two  or  three  years  ago, 
she  had  gone  with  her  mother,  it  was  with  a  feel- 
ing of  being  classed  with  the  multitude  of  the  poor 
and  struggling  and  ill-dressed.  So  the  walking 
had  been  mainly  in  streets  where  such  classes  were 
lodged  and  at  home.  Now  Rotha  went  where  the 
buildings  were  fine  and  the  ways  broad,  and  where 
the  passers-by  were  gay  and  splendid.  Her  breath 
came  freer,  her  step  grew  more  elastic,  the  colour 
rose  in  her  cheeks ;  and  when  the  little  procession 
returned  home,  Miss  Parsons,  who  had  been  in 
charge  of  it,  remarked  to  Mrs.  Mowbray  that  she 
had  no  idea  before  what  a  very  handsome  girl  Miss 
Carpenter  was.  And  Mrs.  Mowbray,  when  they 
all  gathered  to  dinner,  cast  a  keen  glance  at  the 
new  member  of  the  company.  She  was  reassured; 
not  a  particle  of  self-consciousness  was  to  be  traced 
in  the  fine,  bright,  spirited  lace,  though  the  beauty 
was  unquestioned. 

That  was  the  first  time  Rotha  had  met  the  family 


SCHOOL.  353 

at  table.  It  was  a  new  and  highly  interesting  ex- 
perience for  her.  The  table  was  very  long;  and 
the  mere  sight  of  so  many  fresh  young  faces  to- 
gether was  inspiriting  of  itself;  of  greatest  interest 
to  Rotha  because  these  were  her  companions,  fel- 
low pupils",  sharers  in  work  and  play  together. 
But  apart  from  its  living  surroundings,  the  board 
excited  Rotha's  keenest  attention.  The  delicacy 
and  order  of  its  arrangements,  the  beauty  of  its 
appointments,  the  abundance  of  the  supply,  the 
excellence  of  the  material.  Everything  there  was 
of  the  best ;  everything  was  well  cooked  and  ap- 
petizing; it  was  a  simple  table,  as  it  should  be,  but 
no  provision  for  health  or  comfort  was  wanting. 
Rotha  felt  herself  at  home  in  surroundings  that 
suited  her. 

Then  it  was  a  lively  meal ;  not  a  bit  of  stagna- 
tion. At  Mrs.  Busby's  the  talk  at  table  was  about 
nothing  to  stir  the  slightest  interest,  to  any  one 
whose  soul  was  not  in  a  condition  to  be  fed  with 
the  very  dryest  of  social  husks;  the  only  exceptions 
being  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Busby  got  into  a  debate. 
A  debate  always  has  some  elements  of  interest,  if 
there  is  any  wit  on  either  side  of  it.  Here,  the  first 
thing,  after  the  carving  was  well  begun,  was  the 
reciting  of  French  anecdotes  or  sayings  or  quota- 
tions, by  each  of  the  scholars  in  turn;  the  exercise 
being  superintended  by  the  French  teacher,  a 
very  imposing  person  in  Rotha's  eyes,  to  whom  she 
had  just  that  day  been  introduced.  It  was  very 
amusing  to  her  to  hear  the  differing  accent,  the 


354  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

varying  voices,  and  to  watch  the  different  air  and 
manner  of  the  girls,  as  Mrae.  Bonton's  voice,  utter- 
ing "  Suivante  " — "  Suivante  " — called  them  up  one 
after  another.  She  herself,  of  course,  had  no  little 
speech  prepared.  Then  the  conversation  became 
general,  as  the  business  of  dining  went  on  its  way, 
and  Mrs.  Mowbray  made  part  of  it  very  interest- 
ing. Altogether,  it  was  a  time  of  delight  to  Rotha. 

Not  less  so  were  the  hours  of  study  that  fol 
lowed.  It  was  one  of  her  good  properties,  that 
she  could  easily  concentrate  all  her  attention  on 
the  one  thing  she  happened  to  have  in  hand.  So 
study  was  study  to  her;  deep,  absorbing,  conquer- 
ing, and  of  course  triumphing.  And  when  the  bell 
summoned  the  family  to  tea,  she  came  fresh  for 
new  pleasure  to  assemble  with  the  rest. 

The  parlours  were  cleared  of  the  long  table  now; 
only  enough  of  it  being  left  to  accommodate  the 
younger  scholars  who  might  not  be  trusted  to  hold 
a  cup  of  tea  safely.  The  girls  brought  their  vari- 
ous pieces  of  fancy  work;  the  rooms  were  well 
lighted,  well  furnished,  the  walls  hung  with  en- 
gravings and  paintings,  the  mantelpieces  full  of 
pretty  things;  it  was  not  like  a  school,  but  like  a 
large,  elegant  family  gathering.  Here  the  tea  was 
handed  round,  with  rolls  and  excellent  cake  and 
biscuits.  Mrs.  Mowbray  presently  called  Rotha  to 
her  side,  by  the  big  table ;  and  held  a  little  quiet 
talk  with  her  about  the  course  of  the  day,  intro- 
ducing her  at  the  same  time  to  several  of  her 
schoolmates.  I  can  never  tell  how  the  girl's  whole 


SCHOOL.  355 

nature  opened  and  expanded,  like  a  suddenly  blos- 
soming rose,  under  the  genial,  kindly  atmosphere 
and  culture  into  which  she  now  came. 

Study  ?  She  studied  with  a  consuming  kind  of 
intensity.  Not  a  teacher  that  she  had  to  do  with, 
but  took  delight  in  her.  She  gave  them  abso- 
lutely no  trouble.  She  was  not  a  timid  girl ;  so  was 
not,  like  some,  hindered  by  nervousness  from  mak- 
ing a  fair  presentation  of  herself.  Her  mind  was 
opening,  greedy  for  the  food  it  got,  and  taking  it 
in  rapidly. 

And  happy  ?  There  was  not  seemingly  a  hap- 
pier girl  in  the  house.  Crowding  new  interests 
had  driven  into  the  background,  for  the  time,  the 
demands  of  conscience ;  and  Rotha  was  one  of  those 
people  whose  cup  of  life  is  a  large  one ;  capacities 
of  heart  and  intellect  alike  wide  in  their  possibili- 
ties, but  if  satisfied,  making  existence  very  rich. 
She  was  quiet  enough  in  manner,  never  forgetting 
her  beloved  model;  yet  eye  and  lip  and  varying 
colour,  and  the  involuntary  movement  of  head  and 
hand,  and  foot  too,  testified  to  the  glad  growing 
life  of  her  soul.  Mrs.  Mowbray  saw  it  with  per- 
petual satisfaction;  it  got  to  be  a  habit  with  her 
that  her  eye  sought  and  rested  on  that  one  unmis- 
takeably  honest  and  loyal  member  of  her  family. 
And  Rotha's  eye  never  met  hers  but  there  came  a 
sparkle  and  a  look  of  love  into  the  young  face. 

All  day  was  a  delight  now  to  the  girl ;  begin- 
ning with  the  morning  prayers,  which  to  be  sure 
she  loved  mostly  because  she  heard  Mrs.  Mowbray's 


356  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

voice  in  them.  Then  came  breakfast;  bright  and 
cheeiy,  with  the  hope  and  the  work  of  the  day  in 
prospect,  and  a  lively,  pretty,  pleasant  table  and 
company  in  possession.  It  was  not  like  school ;  it 
was  a  large  family;  where  all  arrangements  and 
supplies  were  as  in  the  best  appointed  private 
house,  and  the  only  rules  that  reigned  were  the 
rules  of  good  manners.  Then  came  the  brisk  walk 
in  the  bracing  morning  air ;  and  then,  study.  Some 
lesson  hours  were  particularly  interesting  to  Rotha. 
Latin  she  did  not  like,  but  French  she  took  to 
kindly;  and  Madame  Bonton  told  madame  with  a 
satisfied  nod  of  her  head,  that  Miss  Carpenter  was 
"  not  a  soap  bubble  ", — high  praise,  which  only  a 
few  of  the  girls  ever  attained. 

Among  her  schoolmates  Rotha  made  no  par- 
ticular friends.  Some  of  them  asked  captiously 
who  she  was  ?  others  remarked  critically  that  she 
thought  herself  too  good  looking ;  others  declared 
enviously  that  she  was  a  "  favourite."  Rotha  did 
not  take  to  any  of  them;  made  no  confident  of  any 
of  them ;  and  was  felt  by  most  of  them  to  be  some- 
how uncongenial.  Those  who  saw  most  of  her  felt 
this  most  decidedly.  She  presently  was  out  of  fa- 
vour with  all  her  roommates. 

It  was  a  rule  of  the  house  that  lights  should 
be  all  out  at  ten  o'clock.  Then  one  of  the  under 
teachers  made  a  progress  through  the  rooms  to  see 
that  this  was  done  and  everybody  in  bed.  Rotha 
made  one  of  four  girls  who  occupied  a  large  room 
on  the  third  floor.  Each  young  lady  had  her  own 


SCHOOL.  357 

bed,  her  own  press  and  drawers,  and  everything 
comfort  called  for ;  of  course  absolute  privacy  could 
not  be  given.  When  Rotha  had  been  in  her  new 
quarters  two  or  three  weeks,  there  came  a  collision 
between  her  and  her  fellows  in  that  room.  One 
night  Miss  Jewett  had  been  round  as  usual  and 
turned  off  the  gas.  As  soon  as  her  retreating  foot- 
steps were  heard  to  reenter  her  own  room,  at  the 
further  end  of  the  passage,  one  of  the  girls  sprang 
up  and  lit  the  gas  again.  The  burner  was  near  the 
head  of  her  bed,  so  that  she  could  see  pretty  well 
to  read  when  she  was  lying  down ;  which  to  Ro- 
tha's  great  surprise  she  went  on  to  do  for  some 
time — till  Rotha  fell  asleep.  The  next  night  the 
same  thing  happened,  and  the  next.  Rotha  be- 
came uneasy,  and  finally  could  bear  it  no  longer. 
The  fourth  time  this  trick  was  played,  she  lifted 
her  voice  in  protest. 

"Miss  Entable,"  said  she,  "what  you  are  doing  is 
against  the  rules." 

She  spoke  clearly  enough,  though  with  a  moder- 
ated voice ;  but  not  the  least  attention  was  paid  to 
her  remonstrance.  One  of  her  three  companions 
was  asleep ;  the  second  giggled ;  the  reader  took  no 
notice.  Rotha  grew  hot.  What  was  she  to  do? 
Not  give  way.  To  give  way  in  the  face  of  opposi- 
tion was  never  Rotha's  manner.  She  slipped  out  of 
bed  and  came  near  the  one  where  the  reader  lay. 

"  Miss  Entable,  it  is  against  rules,  what  you  are 
doing." 

"  Mind  your  own  business,"  said  the  other  shortly. 


358  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  I  am  minding  it,"  returned  Eotha.  "  It  is  my 
business  to  keep  Mrs.  Mowbray's  rules,  and  not  to 
help  break  them;  and  I  will  not." 

"  Will  not  what  ?  You  want  to  curry  favour  with 
old  Mowbray — that's  what  you  do.  I  have  no  pa- 
tience with  such  meanness! " 

"You  had  better  go  and  tell  her  what  we  are  do- 
ing," said  the  third  girl  scornfully. 

"  Miss  Me  Pherson,"  said  Kotha,  her  voice  trem- 
bling a  little  with  wrath,  "I  think  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray  trusts  you.  How  can  you  bear  to  be  false  to 
trust?" 

"Stuff!" 

"Cant!" 

"  Nobody  asks  your  opinion  about  it.  Who  are 
you  ?  "  said  the  Me  Pherson,  who  in  her  own  opin- 
ion was  somebody. 

"  Nor  do  I  ask  yours,"  said  Eotha.  "  I  will  not 
help  you  break  madame's  rules.  The  light  is 
one  fourth  part  mine ;  and  my  part  shall  not  burn 
after  hours." 

With  which  deliverance  she  turned  off  the  gas. 
Words  of  smothered  rage  and  scorn  followed  her 
as  she  went  back  to" bed;  and  the  next  day  Botha 
was  plainly  ostracised  by  a  large  part  of  her  school- 
mates. 

The  next  evening  the  gas  was  lighted  again  after 
ten  o'clock. 

"Now  you  Carpenter,"  said  the  reader,  "I  am 
not  going  to  stand  any  of  your  ill  manners.  You 
will  let  the  gas  alone,  if  you  please." 


SCHOOL.  359 

"  I  cannot  let  it  alone,"  said  Rotha.  "  I  should 
be  a  sharer  in  your  dishonour." 

"  Dishonour !  well,  let  it  alone,  or  I'll — " 

"What,  Miss  Entable?" 

"  Me  Pherson  and  I  will  put  you  in  bed  and  tie 
you  there ;  and  Jennings  will  help.  We  are  three 
against  one.  So  hold  your  tongue." 

Rotha  reflected.  It  did  not  suit  her  feeling  of 
self-respect  to  be  concerned  in  a  row.  She  raised 
herself  on  one  elbow. 

"  I  do  not  choose  to  fight,"  she  said;  "that  is  not 
my  way.  But  if  you  do  not  put  the  gas  out,  I 
shall  tell  Mrs.  Mowbray  that  she  must  make  some- 
body watch  to  see  that  her  orders  are  observed." 

Now  there  arose  a  storm;  rage  and  contempt 
and  reviling  were  heaped  on  Rotha's  head.  "  In- 
former ! " — "  Spy ! " — "  Mean  tell  tale ! " — were  some 
of  the  gentle  marks  of  esteem  bestowed  on  her. 

"  I  am  not  an  informer,"  said  Rotha,  when  she 
could  be  heard;  "I  am  not  going  to  mention  any 
names.  I  will  only  tell  Mrs.  Mowbray  that  she 
must  charge  somebody  to  see  that  her  orders  are 
observed." 

"Orders!  She  is  a  mean,  pinching,  narrow- 
minded,  low,  schoolma'am.  You  should  see  how 
it  is  at  Mrs.  De  Joyce's.  The  girls  have  liberty — 
they  receive  their  friends — they  go  to  the  opera 
— they  have  little  dances — they  do  just  what  they 
like.  Mrs.  De  Joyce  is  such  a  lady !  it  is  another 
thing.  I  am  not  going  to  stay  in  this  mean  house 
after  this  term  is  out" 


3GO  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Mary  Entable !  "  said  Rotha,  rising  up  on  her 
elbow  and  speaking  with  blazing  eyes;  "are  you 
not  ashamed  of  yourself?  Mrs.  Mowbray,  who 
has  just  been  so  kind  to  you !  so  generous !  so  good ! 
How  long  is  it  since  she  was  nursing  you  through 
a  terrible  sickness — nursing  you  night  and  day — 
entertaining  your  mother  and  your  sister  for  ten 
days,  in  her  crowded  house.  Do  you  dare  call 
her  narrow  ?  Answer  me  one  thing,  if  you  can ; 
did  your  mother  and  sister  bear  the  expense  of  their 
stay  here,  or  did  she  ?  Answer  me,  if  you  have  a 
fraction  of  a  soul  in  you ! — Aren't  you  ashamed ! 
I  should  think  you  would  cover  up  your  face  in  the 
bedclothes,  and  never  look  at  anybody  again  !  " 

Leaning  on  her  elbow,  raised  so  up  in  her  bed, 
Rotha  had  delivered  herself  of  the  foregoing;  in  a 
moderated  voice  it  is  true,  but  with  a  cutting  en 
ergy  and  directness.  The  other  three  girls  were  at 
first  silent,  partly  with  astonishment,  Rotha's  usual 
manner  was  so  contained. 

"You  may  do  as  you  like,"  she  went  on  more 
composedly,  "  but  help  you  I  will  not  in  your  wrong 
ways.  If  the  gas  is  lighted  again  after  ten  o'clock, 
I  shall  take  my  measures.  I  come  of  an  honest 
family." 

That  last  cut  was  too  much.  The  storm  of  abuse 
burst  forth  again;  but  Rotha  wrapped  herself  in 
her  coverlets  and  said  no  more.  The  gas  was  not 
relighted  that  evening.  However,  in  the  nature 
of  the  case  it  followed  that  lawless  girls  would  not 
be  long  kept  in  check  by  the  influence  of  one  whom 


SCHOOL.  361 

they  regarded  so  lightly  as  these  did  Rotha.  A 
fortnight  later,  the  latter  came  to  Mrs.  Mowbray 
one  day  when  she  was  alone  in  the  library. 

"  Well,  my  child — what  is  it  ?  "  said  the  kind  voice 
she  had  learned  to  love  devotedly.  Mrs.  Mowbray 
was  arranging  some  of  the  displaced  books  in  the 
bookcases,  and  spoke  with  only  a  fleeting  glance 
at  the  person  approaching  her,  to  see  who  it  was. 

"  May  I  speak  to  you,  madame  ?  " 

«  Yes— speak.     What  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  how  to  say  what  I  want  to  say." 

"Straight  out,  my  child.  Straight  out  is  best. 
What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  with  me,  madame.  But — if  it  would 
not  give  too  much  trouble — I  thought  I  would  like 
it  very  much  if  I  could  be  put  in  another  room." 

"  Sleeping  room  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"Why?" — Mrs.  Mowbray's  quick  hands  were 
busy  all  the  while  she  was  talking;  putting  up  and 
pulling  down.  Rotha  hesitated. 

"  Madame,  before  I  answer  I  should  like  to  ask 
another  question.  What  ought  I  to  do  if  I  see 
something  done  which  you  have  forbidden  ?  " 

A  quick  sharp  glance  came  her  way  now. 

"  What  have  you  seen  ?  " 

"That  is  just  what  I  do  not  know  whether  I 
ought  to  tell  you.  I  thought,  perhaps  it  would  be 
the  best  way  for  me  to  go  where  I  could  not  see  it." 

"  Why  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Mowbray  dryly. 

"Then  I  should  not  be  sharing  the  wrong.     I 


362  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

suppose,  more  than  that  is  not  my  affair.  I  am 
afraid  it  would  be  troublesome  to  move  me." 

"Any  change  is  troublesome  in  a  house  like 
this,"  the  lady  answered;  and  Eotha  stood  still, 
not  knowing  how  to  go  on.  Mrs.  Mowbray  stepped 
up  on  the  library  steps  to  arrange  some  books  on 
the  upper  shelves;  and  till  she  came  down  she  did 
not  speak  again. 

"  You  are  quite  right  to  mention  no  names  and 
give  no  stories,"  she  said  then.  "  I  always  doubt 
an  informer.  And  you  are  quite  right  also  in  re- 
fusing to  countenance  what  is  wrong.  I  will  give 
you  another  room,  my  dear."  She  took  Rotha  in 
her  arms  and  kissed  her  repeatedly.  "Have  I 
found  a  friend  ?  "  she  said. 

"You,  madame?"  said  Rotha.  "I  cannot  do 
anything  for  you;  but  you  have  done  everything 
for  me." 

"You  can  give  me  love  and  truth — that  is  all 
we  any  of  us  can  give  to  one  another,  isn't  it  ?  The 
ways  of  shewing  may  be  different. — Where  are  you 
going  to  spend  the  holidays?"  she  said  with  a 
change  of  tone. 

"I  don't  know,  madame.  I  have  not  thought 
about  it." 

"  Will  you  spend  them  with  me  ?  " 

Joy  flamed  up  in  Rotha's  eyes  and  lips  and 
cheeks.  "  0  madame ! — if  I  may." 

"  I  expect  half  a  dozen  of  the  young  ladies  will 
stay  with  me.  Here  is  a  note  that  came  for  you, 
from  your  aunt." 


SCHOOL.  363 

She  gave  Rotha  an  open  note  to  read.  It  con- 
tained the  request  that  Rotha  might  spend  the 
time  between  Christmas  and  New  Year's  Day  at 
her  house,  but  not  those  days.  Rotha  read  and 
looked  up. 

"  Write,"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray,  "  and  say  to  your 
aunt  that  I  have  invited  you  and  that  you  have 
accepted  the  invitation,  for  the  whole  holidays." 

The  smile  and  the  glance  of  her  sweet  eye  were 
bewitching.  Rotha  felt  as  if  she  could  have  stooped 
down  and  kissed  her  very  garments. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

BAGS  AND  BIBLES. 

rPHOSE  holidays  were  a  never-to-be-forgotten 
1  time  in  Rotha's  life.  Christmas  eve,  and  in- 
deed a  day  before,  there  was  a  great  bustle  and 
rush  of  movement  in  the  house,  almost  all  the 
boarders  sweeping  away  to  their  various  homes. 
Their  example  was  followed  by  the  under  teachers ; 
only  Miss  Blodgett  remained;  and  a  sudden  lull 
tot)k  place  of  the  rush.  A  small  table  was  drawn 
out  in  the  middle  room ;  and  Mrs.  Mowbray  came 
to  dinner  with  a  face',  tired  indeed,  but  set  for  play. 
The  days  of  the  ordinary  weeks  were  always  thick 
set  with  business ;  the  weight  of  business  was  upon 
every  heart;  now  it  was  unmitigated  holiday. 
Nobody  knew  better  how  to  play  than  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray  ;  it  was  in  her  very  air  and  voice  and  words. 
Perhaps  some  of  this  was  assumed  for  the  sake  of 
others;  a  large  portion  of  it  was  unquestionably 
real.  The  table  was  festive,  that  Christmas  eve; 
flowers  dressed  it;  the  dessert  was  gay  with  con- 
fections and  bonbons,  as  well  as  ice  cream;  and 
there  was  a  breath  of  promise  and  anticipation  in 

Mrs.  Mowbray's  manner  that  infected  the  dullest 
(364) 


BAGS  AND  BIBLES.  365 

spirits  there.  And  some  of  the  girls  were  very 
dull !  But  Kotha's  sprang  up  as  if  she  had  been 
in  paradise. 

"  Are  you  going  to  hang  up  your  stocking,  Miss 
Blodgett?" 

Miss  Blodgett  bridled  and  smiled  and  was  un- 
derstood to  express  her  opinion  that  she  was  "too 
old." 

"'Too  old!'  My  dear  Miss  Blodgett!  One  is 
never  too  old  to  be  happy.  I  intend  to  be  as  happy 
as  ever  I  can.  I  shall  hang  up  my  stocking;  and 
I  expect  everybody  to  put  something  in  it." 

"You  ought  to  have  let  us  know  that  before- 
hand, madame,"  said  Miss  Blodgett. 

"  Let  you  know  beforehand ! "  said  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray,  while  her  eye  twinkled  mischievously:  "  My 
dear  friend !  1  don't  want  any  but  free-will  offer- 
ings. You  didn't  think  I  was  going  to  levy  black 
mail?  did  you?  Miss  Blodgett!  I  thought  you 
knew  me  better." 

Whether  she  were  in  jest  or  in  earnest,  Kotha 
could  not  make  up  her  mind.  She  was  laughing 
at  Miss  Blodgett,  that  Kotha  saw;  but  was  it  all 
nonsense  about  the  stocking  and  the  gifts  ?  Mrs. 
Mowbray's  sweet  eyes  were  dancing  with  fun,  her 
lips  wreathed  with  the  loveliest  archness;  what- 
ever she  meant,  Rotha  was  utterly  and  wholly  be- 
witched. She  ran  on  for  some  little  time,  amusing 
herself  and  the  girls,  and  putting  slow  Miss  Blod- 
gett in  something  of  an  embarrassment,  she  was 
so  much  too  quick  for  her. 


366  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Are  you  going  to  hang  up  your  stocking,  Miss 
Emory  ?  " 

Miss  Emory  in  her  turn  smiled  and  bridled,  and 
seemed  at  a  loss  how  to  answer. 

"MissEutable?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Certainly.  We  will  all  hang  up  our  stockings. 
Do  you  think  by  the  chimney  is  the  best  place, 
Louisa  ?  " 

The  girl  addressed  was  a  little  girl,  left  in  Mrs. 
Mowbray's  care  while  her  parents  were  in  Europe. 
She  dimpled  and  declared  she  supposed  one  place 
was  as  good  as  another. 

"  But  you  believe  Santa  Glaus  comes  down  the 
chimney  ?  " 

"  I  always  knew  better,  Mrs.  Mowbray." 

"You  did!  You  knew  better!  She  knew  bet- 
ter, Miss  Blodgett.  We  are  growing  so  wise  in 
this  generation.  Here's  little  Miss  Farrar  does 
not  believe  in  Santa  Glaus.  I  think  that's  a  great 
loss.  Miss  Garpenter,  what  do  you  think  about  it  ? 
Do  you  think  it  is  best  to  let  the  cold  daylight  in 
upon  all  our  dreams  ?  " 

"  The  sun  is  not  cold,  madame." 

"  But  the  sun  leaves  no  mystery." 

"  I  do  not  like  mystery,  madame  ?  " 

"  You  don't  ?  I  think  the  charm  of  the  stocking 
hung  up,  is  the  mystery.  To  listen  for  the  sound 
of  the  reiii-deers'  feet  on  the  roof,  to  hear  the  rustle 
of  the  paper  packages  as  Santa  Glaus  comes  down 
the  chimney — there  is  nothing  like  that  I  I  used 


BAGS  AND  BIBLES.  367 

to  lie  and  listen  and  cover  up  my  eyes  for  fear  I 
should  look,  and  be  all  in  a  tremble  of  delight  and 
mystery." 

"  I  should  have  looked,"  said  Rotha. 

"  You  must  never  look  at  Santa  Glaus.  He  don't 
like  it." 

"But  I  always  knew  it  was  no  Santa  Glaus." 

"Do  you  think  you,  and  Miss  Farrar  here,  are 
the  happier  for  being  so  wise  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Kotha  laughing.  "  I  can- 
not help  it." 

"Mrs.  Mowbray,"  said  Miss  Blodgett,  "Miss  Car- 
penter is  the  only  young  lady  in  the  house  who 
says  'do  not'  instead  of  don't;  have  you  noticed?" 

"My  dear  Miss  Blodgett!  don't  you  go  to  preach- 
ing up  preciseness.  Life  is  too  short  to  round  all 
the  corners ;  and  there  are  too  many  corners.  You 
must  cut  across  sometimes.  I  say  '  don't,'  myself." 

She  went  now  into  a  more  business-like  inquiry, 
how  the  several  young  ladies  present  expected  to 
spend  the  next  day ;  and  as  they  rose  from  table, 
asked  Rotha  if  she  would  like  to  drive  out  with 
her  immediately.  She  had  business  to  attend  to. 

The  drive,  and  the  business,  of  that  Christmas 
eve  remained  a  vision  of  unalloyed  pure  delight 
in  Rotha's  memory  for  ever.  The  city  was  brightly 
lighted,  at  least  where  she  and  Mrs.  Mowbray  went ; 
the  streets  were  full  of  a  gay  crowd,  gay  as  one 
sees  it  at  no  other  time  of  all  the  year  but  around 
the  holidays ;  everybody  was  buying  or  had  bought, 
and  was  carrying  bundles  done  up  in  brown  pa- 


368  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

per,  and  packages  of  all  sizes  and  shapes;  and 
everybody's  face  looked  as  if  there  were  a  pleasant 
thought  behind  it,  for  everybody  was  preparing 
good  for  somebody  else.  Mrs.  Mowbray  was  on 
such  errands,  Rotha  immediately  saw.  And  the 
shops  were  such  scenes  of  happy  bustle ;  happy  to 
the  owners,  for  they  were  driving  a  good  trade; 
and  happy  to  the  customers,  for  every  one  was 
getting  what  he  wanted.  A  large  grocer's  was 
the  first  place  Mrs.  Mowbray  stopped  at ;  and  even 
here  the  scene  was  exceedingly  attractive  and  in- 
teresting to  Rotha.  It  was  not  much  like  the  lit- 
tle corner  grocery  near  Jane  Street,  where  she 
once  used  to  buy  half  pounds  of  tea  and  pecks  of 
potatoes  for  her  mother;  although  the  mingled 
scents  of  spices  and  cheese  did  recall  that  to  mind; 
the  spices  and  the  cheese  here  were  better,  and 
the  odours  correspondingly.  Rotha  never  lost  the 
remembrance,  nor  ever  entered  a  large  house'  of 
this  kind  again  in  her  life  without  a  sweeping  im- 
pression of  the  mysterious  bustle  and  joy  of  that 
Christmas  eve. 

Mrs.  Mowbray  had  various  orders  to  give.  Among 
them  was  one  specially  interesting  to  Rotha.  She 
desired  to  have  some  twenty  or  thirty  pounds  of 
tea  done  up  in  half  pound  packages;  also  as  many 
pounds  of  sugar;  loaf  sugar.  As  she  and  Rotha 
were  driving  off  she  explained  what  all  this  was 
for.  "It  is  to  go  to  my  poor  old  people  at  the 
Coloured  Home,"  she  said.  "Did  you  ever  hear 
of  the  Old  Coloured  Home  ?  I  suppose  not  That 


BAGS  AND  BIBLES.  369 

is  an  institution  for  the  care  of  worn-out  old  col- 
oured people,  who  have  nobody  to  look  after  them. 
They  expect  to  see  me  at  Christmas.  Would  you 
like  to  go  with  me  to-morrow,  after  church,  when 
I  go  to  take  the  tea  to  them  ?  " 

Botha  answered,  most  sincerely,  that  she  would 
like  to  go  anywhere  with  Mrs.  Mowbray. 

"  They  think  all  the  world  of  tea,  those  poor  old 
women;  and  they  do  not  get  it  very  good.  The 
tea  for  them  all  is  brewed  in  a  great  kettle  and 
sweetened  with  molasses,  without  taking  any  ac- 
count of  differences  of  taste,"  Mrs.  Mowbray  added 
laughing;  "and  many  of  these  old  people  know 
what  is  good  as  well  as  I  do;  and  this  common 
tea  is  dreadful  to  them.  So  at  Christmas  I  always 
carry  them  a  half  pound  of  tea  apiece  and  a  pound 
of  loaf  sugar;  and  you  have  no  idea  how  much 
they  look  forward  to  it." 

"  Half  a  pound  of  tea  will  last  quite  a  good 
while,"  said  Rotha. 

"  How  do  you  know,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  I  used  to  get  half  a  pound  at  a  time  for  mother, 
and  then  I  used  to  make  it  for  her  always ;  so  I 
know  it  will  do  for  a  long  time,  if  one  is  careful." 

"  So  you  have  been  a  housekeeper  !  " 

"Not  much. — I  used  to  do  things  for  mother." 

"  Mrs.  Busby  is  her  sister  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am;  but  not  like  her.  0  not  a  bit  like 
her." 

"  Where  was  Mrs.  Busby  in  those  days  ?  " 

"  Here.     Just  where  she  is  now." 


370  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"Did  she  never  come  to  see  you?" 

"She  did  not  know  where  we  were.  Mother 
never  let  her  know." 

"  Do  you  know  why  not,  my  dear  ?  " 

"She  had  been  so  unkind — "  Rotha  answered 
in  a  low  voice. 

Mrs.  Mowbray  thought  to  herself  that  probably 
there  had  been  fault  on  both  sides. 

"  You  must  try  and  forget  all  that,  my  dear,  if 
there  were  old  grievances.  It  is  best  to  forgive 
and  forget,  and  Christmas  is  a  capital  time  to  do 
it.  I  never  dare  think  of  a  grudge  against  any- 
body at  Christmas.  And  your  aunt  seems  dis- 
posed to  be  kind  to  you  now." 

"  No,  ma'am,  I  do  not  think  she  does." 

"Don't  you!" 

"No,  ma'am.     I  do  not" 

"  Why,  my  dear,  you  must  not  bear  malice." 

"What  is  'malice'?" 

"Well,— ill-will." 

"Ill-will — I  do  not  think  I  wish  any  harm 
to  her,"  said  Rotha  slowly ;  "  but  I  do  not  forgive 
her." 

"  What  do  you  want  to  do  to  her?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  should  like  to  make  her  feel 
ashamed  of  herself— if  I  knew  how." 

"  I  do  not  think  that  lies  in  your  power,  my  dear ; 
and  I  would  not  tiy.  That  is  a  sort  of  revenge- 
taking;  and  all  sorts  of  revenge-taking  are  for- 
bidden to  us.  'Vengeance  is  mine,'  saith  the 
Lord." 


BAGS  AND  BIBLES.  371 

"I  do  not  mean  vengeance,"  said  Kotha.  "I 
mean,  just  punishment — a  little  bit." 

"  That  is  the  meaning  of  the  word  *  vengeance ' 
in  that  place ; — -just  punishment ;  but  in  your  heart, 
Botha,  it  is  revenge.  Put  it  away,  my  dear.  It  is 
not  the  spirit  of  Christ.  You  must  forgive,  if  you 
would  be  forgiven." 

"I  do  not  know  how,"  said  Rotha,  low  and 
steadily. 

"See  how  Jesus  did.  When  they  were  nail- 
ing him  to  the  cross,  he  said,  'Father,  forgive 
them.' " 

"Yes,  but  he  said  too,  Mrs.  Mowbray, — 'they 
know  not  what  they  do.'" 

"  My  dear,  nobody  knows  the  evil  he  does.  That 
does  not  excuse  the  evil,  but  it  helps-  your  charity 
for  the  sinner.  Nobody  knows  the  evil  he  does.  I 
suppose  Mrs.  Busby  has  no  notion  how  much  she 
has  hurt  you." 

Rotha  thought,  her  aunt  had  as  little  care;  but 
she  did  not  say  it.  She  was  silent  a  minute,  and 
then  asked  if  the  poor  people  at  the  Old  Coloured 
Home  were  all  women  ? 

"  O  no !  "  Mrs.  Mowbray  answered.  "  There  are 
a  great  many  men.  I  give  them  a  pound  of  tobacco 
each ;  but  I  prefer  not  to  take  that  in  the  carriage 
with  me.  It  is  all  up  there  now,  I  suppose,  waiting 
for  me  and  to-morrow." 

With  which  the  carriage  stopped  again. 

Here  it  was  a  bookstore;  a  large  and  beautiful 
one.  The  light  was  brilliant;  and  on  every  counter 


372  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

and  table  lay  spread  about  such  treasures  of  print- 
ing, engraving,  and  the  book-binder's  art,  as  Ro- 
tha  had  never  seen  gathered  together  before.  Mrs. 
Mowbray  told  her  to  amuse  herself  with  looking 
at  the  books  and  pictures,  while  she  attended  to 
the  business  that  brought  her  here;  and  so  began 
a  wonderful  hour  for  Rotha.  O  the  books !  0  the 
pictures !  what  pages  of  interest !  what  leaves  of 
beauty  !  Her  eyes  were  drunk  with  delight.  From 
one  thing  to  another,  with  careful  fingers  and  dainty 
touch  she  went  exploring ;  sometimes  getting  caught 
in  the  interest  of  an  open  page  of  letterpress,  some- 
times hanging  over  an  engraving  with  wondering 
admiration  and  sympathy.  It  seemed  any  length 
of  time,  it  was  really  not  more  than  three  quarters 
of  an  hour,  when  Mrs.  Mowbray  approached  her 
again,  having  got  through  her  errands.  With 
cheeks  red  and  eyes  intent,  Rotha  was  bending 
over  something,  the  sense  of  hearing  for  the  present 
gone  into  abeyance ;  Mrs.  Mowbray  was  obliged  to 
touch  her.  She  smiled  at  Rotha's  start. 

"  What  had  you  there,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  All  sorts  of  things,  Mrs.  Mowbray !  Just  that 
minute,  I  was  looking  at  an  atlas." 

"An  atlas!" 

"  Yes,  the  most  perfect  I  ever  saw.  0  beautiful, 
and  with  so  many  things  told  and  taught  in  it.  A 
delightful  atlas !  And  then,  I  was  looking  at  the 
illustrations  in  the  'Arabian  Nights' — I  think  that 
was  the  name." 

"  You  never  read  it?" 


BAGS  AND  BIBLES.  373 

"  0  no,  ma'am.  I  never  had  many  books  to  read ; 
— until  now." 

"  Are  you  reading  anything  now,  in  course  ?  " 

"  1  haven't  much  time,  there  is  so  much  history 
to  read.  But  I  have  begun  '  Waverley."' 

"  Do  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  0,  a  great  deal  more  than  I  can  tell !  " 

"Do  not  let  it  draw  you  away  from  your 
studies." 

"No,  ma'am.  There  is  no  danger,"  said  Rotha 
joyously. 

Mrs.  Mowbray  did  not  speak  again  till  the  car- 
riage stopped  at  Stewart's.  It  was  the  first  time 
Rotha  had  ever  been  inside  of  those  white  walls; 
and  this  visit  finished  the  bewitchment  of  the  even- 
ing. At  first  the  size  of  the  place  and  the  numbers 
of  people  busy  there  engrossed  her  attention;  nor 
did  either  thing  cease  to  be  a  wonder;  but  by  de- 
grees one  grows  accustomed  even  to  wonders.  By 
degrees  Rotha  was  able  to  look  at  what  was  on  the 
counters,  as  well  as  what  was  before  them ;  for  a 
while  she  had  followed  Mrs.  Mowbray  without  see- 
ing what  that  lady  was  doing.  Mrs.  Mowbray  had 
a  good  deal  of  business  on  hand.  When  Rotha 
began  to  attend  to  it,  the  two  had  come  into  the 
rotunda  room  and  were  standing  at  the  great  glove 
counter.  Between  what  was  going  on  there,  and 
what  was  doing  at  the  silk  counters-  around  her, 
Rotha  was  fully  engaged,  and  was  only  recalled  to 
herself  by  Mrs.  Mowbray's  voice  asking, 

"  What  is  your  number,  Rotha?  " 


374  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"Ma'am?"  said  the  girl  "I  did  not  under- 
stand—" 

"  What  is  the  number  of  the  size  of  glove  you 
wear  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  ma'am — 0,  I  remember !  six  and 
a  half." 

"  Six  and  a  half,"  Mrs.  Mowbray  repeated  to  the 
shopman ;  and  then  proceeded  to  pull  out  pairs  of 
gloves  from  the  packages  handed  her.  "There's 
a  dark  green,  my  dear;  that  is  near  the  shade  of 
your  cloak.  There  is  a  good  colour" — throwing 
down  upon  the  green  a  dark  grey;  and  a  brown 
followed  the  green.  "  Now  we  want  some  lighter 
— do  you  like  that  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

More  than  the  mere  affirmative  Kotha  could  not 
say;  she  looked  on  bewildered  and  confounded,  as 
a  pair  of  pearl  grey  gloves  was  laid  upon  the  green, 
the  dark,  and  the  brown,  and  then  came  a  tan- 
coloured  pair,  and  then  a  soft  ashes  of  roses.  Half 
a  dozen  pair  of  kid  gloves !  Rotha  had  never  even 
contemplated  such  profusion.  She  received  the 
little  packet  with  only  a  half-uttered,  low,  sup- 
pressed word  of  thanks.  Then  the  two  wandered 
away  from  that  room,  and  found  themselves  among 
holiday  varieties.  Here  Rotha  was  dazzled.  Not 
indeed  by  glitter;  but  by  the  combinations  of  use 
and  beauty  that  met  her  eyes,  look  where  they 
would.  Mrs.  Mowbray  was  making  purchases,  Ro- 
tha did  not  know  of  what,  it  did  not  concern  her; 
and  she  was  never  tempted  by  vulgar  curiosity. 


BAGS  AND  BIBLES.  375 

She  indulged  her  eyes  with  looking  at  everything 
else.  What  fans,  and  dressing  boxes  and  work 
boxes,  and  fancy  baskets,  and  hand  mirrors,  and 
combs  and  brushes,  and  vials  of  perfumes,  and  writ- 
ing cases,  and  cigar  cases,  and  Japan  ware,  and 
little  clocks,  and  standishes,  and  glove  boxes,  and 
papetries,  and  desks,  and  jewel  cases 

"  Have  you  a  handbag  for  travelling,  Rotha  ?  " 

The  question  made  her  start. 

"  No,  ma'am.     I  never  go  travelling." 

"  You  will,  some  time.  How  do  you  like  that  ? 
Think  it  is  too  large?  " 

Rotha  was  speechless.  Could  Mrs.  Mowbray  re- 
member that  she  had  given  her  half  a  dozen  pair 
of  gloves  that  evening  already  ? 

"  I  always  like  a  handbag  that  will  carry  some- 
thing," Mrs.  Mowbray  went  on.  "  You  want  room 
for  a  book,  and  room  for  writing  materials;  you 
should  always  have  writing  materials  in  your  hand- 
bag, and  stamps,  and  everything  necessary.  You 
never  know  what  you  may  want  in  a  hurry.  I 
think  that  is  about  right;  do  you? " 

"That"  was  a  beautiful  brown  bag  of  Russia 
leather,  sweet  with  the  pungent  sweetness  of  birch 
bark,  or  of  the  peculiar  process  of  curing  with 
such  bark;  and  with  nickel  plated  lock  and  bolts. 
Rotha  flushed  high ;  to  speak  she  was  incompetent 
just  then. 

"I  think  it  will  do  then,"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray, 
herself  in  a  high  state  of  holiday  glee;  preparing, 
as  she  was,  pleasure  for  a  vast  number  of  persons, 


376  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

rich  and  poor,  young  and  old;  she  was  running 
over  with  a  sort  of  angel's  pleasure  in  giving  com- 
fort or  making  glad.  In  Rotha's  case  she  was  do- 
ing both. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  take  it  home  with  you,  my 
dear  ? "  she  went  on.  "  There  will  be  so  many 
things  to  send  from  the  store  to-night  that  they 
will  never  get  to  their  destination ;  and  I  always 
like  to  make  sure  of  a  thing  when  I  have  got  it. 
Though  you  rarely  make  a  mistake  here,"  she  added 
graciously  to  the  foreman  who  was  waiting  upon 
her. 

Rotha  took  the  bag,  without  a  word,  for  she  had 
not  a  thing  to  say;  and  she  dropped  her  package 
of  gloves  into  it,  for  safe  keeping  and  easy  trans- 
portation. Talk  of  riches !  The  thing  is  compara- 
tive. I  question  if  there  was  a  millionaire's 
wife  in  the  city  that  night  who  felt  as  supremely 
rich  as  did  Rotha  with  her  bag  and  her  gloves. 
She  tried  to  say  a  word  of  thanks  to  her  kind 
friend  when  she  got  home;  but  Mrs.  Mowbray 
stopped  her. 

"  Go  to  bed,  my  dear,"  she  said,  with  a  kiss,  "  and 
don't  forget  to  hang  up  your  stocking.  Are  you 
comfortable  up  there  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am — 0  yes !  "  Rotha  answered  as  she 
went  up  the  stairs. 

Comfortable !  She  was  alone  in  her  room,  all  her 
roommates  having  gone  somewhere  for  the  holi- 
days; the  whole  house  was  warm;  and  Rotha  shut 
her  door,  and  set  her  bag  on  a  table,  and  sat  down 


BAGS  AND  BIBLES.  377 

and  looked  at  it;  with  her  heart  growing  big. 
Hang  up  her  stocking !  She !  Had  she  not  had 
Christmas  enough  already  ? 

It  all  worked  oddly  with  Rotha.  To  the  ma- 
jority of  natures,  great  pleasure  is  found  to  work 
adversely  to  the  entertaining  of  serious  thoughts  or 
encouraging  religious  impressions.  With  her,  grief 
seemed  to  muddle  all  her  spiritual  condition,  and 
joy  cleared  it  up.  She  sat  looking  at  her  treasures, 
looking  mentally  at  the  wonderful  good  things  that 
surrounded  her,  contrasted  with  her  previous  un- 
happiness;  and  the  whole  generous  truth  of  her 
nature  was  aroused.  She  ought  to  be  such  a  good 
girl!  And  by  "goodness"  Rotha  did  not  mean  an 
orderly  getting  of  her  lessons.  Conscience  went  a 
great  deal  further,  enlightened  by  the  examples 
she  had  known  of  what  was  really  good.  Yes, 
her  mother  would  have  forgiven  her  aunt ;  and  Mr. 
Digby  would  never  have  been  ill-mannerly  to  her; 
and  supposing  him  for  once  to  be  in  such  a  con- 
dition of  wrong,  he  would  go  straight  forward,  she 
knew,  to  make-  amends,  own  the  fault  and  ask 
pardon.  Further  than  that ;  for  on  both  their  parts 
such  feeling  and  action  would  have  been  but  the 
outcome  of  their  habitual  lowly  and  loving  obedi- 
ence to  God.  That  she  ought  to  be  like  them,  Ro- 
tha knew;  and  tears  of  sorrow  rushed  to  her  eyes 
to  think  she  was  not.  "The  goodness  of  God 
leadeth  thee  to  repentance,"  was  the  thought 
working  in  her ;  although  she  did  not  clothe  it  in 
the  Bible  words. 


378  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

What  hindered  ? 

"My  ugly  temper,"  said  Rotha  to  herself;  "my 
wickedness  and  badness." 

What  help? 

Yes,  there  was  help,  she  knew,  she  believed. 
She  brought  her  Bible  and  turned  to  the  marked 
passages,  brushing  away  the  tears  that  she  might 
see  to  read  them.  "  He  that  hath  my  command- 
ments and  keepeth  them  " — Well,  said  Rotha,  I  will 
keep  them  from  this  time  on. — Forgive  and  all? 
said  something  in  her  heart.  Yes,  forgive  and  all. 
I  will  forgive! — But  you  cannot? — Then  I  will 
ask  help. 

And  she  did.  Earnestly,  tearfully,  ardently,  for 
a  long  time.  She  felt  as  if  her  heart  were  a  stone. 
She  had  to  go  to  bed  at  last,  feeling  no  better. 
But  that  she  would  be  a  true  servant  of  God,  Ro- 
tha was  determined. 

So  came  Christmas  morning  on;  clear,  cold, 
bright  and  still.  Rotha  awaked  at  the  bell  sum- 
mons. Her  first  thought  was  of  last  night's  deter- 
mination, to  which  she  held  fast;  the  next  thought 
was,  that  it  was  Christmas  day,  and  she  must  look 
at  her  gloves  and  Russia  leather  bag.  She  sprang 
up,  and  had  half  dressed  herself  before  she  re- 
marked, lying  on  the  empty  bed  opposite  her  own, 
some  peculiar-looking  packages  done  up  as  usual 
in  brown  paper.  They  must  belong  to  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray  and  have  got  there  by  mistake,  she  thought ; 
and  she  went  over  to  verify  her  supposition.  No, 
to  her  enormous  surprise  she  saw  her  own  name. 


BAGS  AND  BIBLES.  379 

More  Christmas  things !  Eotha  hurried  her  dress- 
ing ;  she  dared  not  stop  to  open  anything  till  that 
was  done;  and  then  an  inner  voice  said,  You  will 
not  have  much  time  for  your  prayers.  Her  heart 
beating,  she  turned  away  and  knelt  down.  And 
she  would  not  cut  short  her  prayers,  either.  She 
besought  help  to  forgive;  she  asked  earnestly  to 
be  made  "  a  new  creature  "  ;  for  the  old  creature, 
she  felt,  would  never  forgive,  to  the  end  of  time. 
She  rose  then,  brushing  the  moisture  from  her  eyes, 
and  went  over  to  look  at  those  mysterious  pack- 
ages. One  was  light,  square,  and  shallow;  the 
other  evidently  a  book,  and  heavy.  She  opened 
the  lesser  package  first.  Behold,  a  dozen  cambrick 
handkerchiefs,  and  upon  them  a  little  bright  blue 
silk  neck  tie.  Rotha  needed  those  articles  very 
much;  she  was  ready  to  scream  for  joy.  The 
other  package  now;  hands  trembling  unfolded  it. 
Brown  paper,  silk  paper, — and  one  of  Bagster's 
octavo  Bibles  with  limp  covers  was  revealed.  Ro- 
tha was  an  ardent  lover  of  the  beautiful  arid  the 
perfect;  her  own  Bible  was  an  old  volume,  much 
worn  by  handling,  bearing  the  marks  of  two  gen- 
erations' use  and  wear;  this  was  the  perfection  of 
a  book  in  every  respect.  Rotha  was  struck  dumb 
and  still,  and  nothing  but  tears  could  give  due 
vent  to  her  feelings;  they  were  tears  of  great  joy, 
of  repentance,  of  new  purpose,  and  of  very  con- 
scious inability  to  do  anything  of  herself  that 
would  be  good.  She  had  sunk  on  her  knees  to  let 
those  tears  have  the  accompaniment  of  prayer;  she 


380  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

rose  up  again  and  clasped  the  Bible  in  her  arms, 
in  heartiest  love  to  it. 

Breakfast  was  late  that  morning,  and  she  had 
time  for  examining  her  gifts  and  for  getting  a  little 
composed  before  she  had  to  go  down  stairs.  She 
went  then  quite  sedately  to  all  appearance.  It 
was  to  her  as  if  the  world  had  turned  round  two 
or  three  times  since  last  night;  other  people,  how- 
ever, she  observed,  had  not  at  all  lost  their  heads 
and  were  very  much  as  usual;  except  that  they 
were  dressed  for  going  to  church,  and  had  the 
pleasant  freedom  of  holiday  times  in  their  looks 
and  manner.  Only  Mrs.  Mowbray  was  really  fes- 
tive. She  was  sparkling  with  spirits,  and  smiling 
with  the  joy  of  doing  kindness,  past  and  future. 
Kotha  sat  next  her  at  the  table ;  and  there  was  a 
gleam  of  amusement  and  intelligence  in  her  eye 
as  she  asked  her,  over  her  coffee  cup,  whether 
Santa  Glaus  had  come  down  her  chimney?  She 
gave  Rotha  no  time  to  answer,  but  ran  on  with  a 
question  to  some  one  else;  only  a  few  minutes 
after,  as  she  put  a  chop  upon  Rotha's  plate,  gave 
her  a  look  full  of  affectionate  kindness  which  said 
that  she  understood  all  and  no  words  were  nec- 
essary. 

It  was  time  to  go  to  church  when  breakfast  and 
prayers  were  over.  Immediately  after  church,  Mrs. 
Mowbray  and  Rotha  took  a  carriage  and  drove  out 
to  the  Old  Coloured  Home ;  all  the  packages  of  tea 
and  sugar  going  along;  as  also  a  perfect  stack  of 
sponge  cakes.  Arrived  at  the  place,  Mrs.  Mow- 


BAGS  AND  BIBLES.  381 

bray's  first  demand  was  to  know  whether  "the 
milk"  had  been  delivered,  and  where  "the  to- 
bacco "  was.  Then  followed  a  scene,  a  succession 
of  scenes  rather,  that  could  never  be  forgotten. 
Mrs.  Mowbray  went  all  through  the  rooms,  deal- 
ing out  to  each  poor  creature  among  the  women 
a  half  pound  package  of  tea,  a  pound  of  sugar, 
a  half  pint  of  milk,  and  a  sizeable  sponge  cake. 
"  My  dear,"  she  whispered  to  Rotha,  who  attended 
and  helped  her,  "they  think  all  the  world  of  a 
bit  of  cake !  They  never  get  it  now,  you  know." 

"  Don't  they  get  milk  ?  " 

"  Some  of  the  ladies  bought  a  cow  for  them,  that 
they  might  have  it  and  have  it  good;  but  it  didn't 
work.  The  matron  took  the  cream  for  herself;  they 
had  only  the  blue  watery  stuff  that  was  left;  and 
when  it  was  attempted  to  rectify  that  abuse,  some- 
body discovered  that  it  cost  too  much  to  keep  a 
cow." 

"  What  a  shame  !  "  cried  Rotha  indignantly. 

"Never  mind;  you  cannot  have  everything  in 
this  world;  the  Home  is  a  great  deal  better  than 
being  in  the  streets." 

But  Rotha  did  not  like  the  Home.  Its  forms 
and  varieties  of  infirmity,  disease,  and  decay,  were 
very  disagreeable  to  her.  She  had  one  of  those 
temperaments  to  which  all  things  beautiful,  grace- 
ful, and  lovely,  speak  with  powerful  influences,  and 
which  are  correspondingly  repelled  and  distressed 
by  the  tokens  of  pain  or  want  or  coarse  living.  All 
the  delight  of  these  women  at  the  sight  of  Mrs. 


382  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Mowbray,  and  all  their  intense  enjoyment  of  her 
gifts,  manifested  broadly  and  abundantly,  could 
not  reconcile  Rotha  to  the  sight  of  their  worn, 
wrinkled  faces,  bowed  forms,  bleared  eyes,  and 
dulled  expression.  Every  one  was  not  so;  but 
these  were  the  majority.  Certainly  Eotha  had  not 
had  a  very  dainty  experience  of  life  during  the 
years  of  her  abode  in  New  York;  she  had  lived 
where  the  poorer  classes  lived  and  been  accus- 
tomed to  seeing  them.  But  there  the  sick  and 
infirm  were  mostly  in  their  houses,  where  she  did 
not  visit  them;  and  the  exceptions  were  noticed 
one  at  a  time.  Here  there  was  an  aggregation 
of  infirmity,  which  oppressed  her  young  heart  and 
revolted  her  fastidious  sense.  It  was  not  pleasant; 
and  Rotha,  like  most  others  who  have  no  experi- 
ence of  life,  was  devoted  to  what  was  pleasant 
She  wondered  to  see  the  glee  and  enjoyment  with 
which  Mrs.  Mowbray  moved  about  among  these 
poor  people ;  a  word,  and  a  word  of  cheer,  for  every 
one;  her  very  looks  and  presence  coming  like 
beams  of  loving  light  upon  their  darkness.  She 
seemed  to  know  them  almost  all. 

"  How's  rheumatism,  aunty  ?  "  she  asked  cheerily 
of  a  little,  wrinkled,  yellow  old  woman,  sitting  in 
a  rocking  chair  and  hovering  near  a  fire. 

"  0  missus,  it's  right  smart  bad !  it  is  surely." 

"  Where  is  it  now  ?  in  your  hands,  or  your  feet?" 

"0  missus,  it  is  all  places!     Tears  there  aint 

no  place  where  it  aint.     It's  in  my  hands,  and  in 

my  feet,  and  in  my  head,  and  in  my  back ;  and  I 


BAGS  AND  BIBLES.  383 

can't  sleep  o'  nights;  and  the  nights  is  powerful 
long  !  so  they  be." 

"Ah,  yes;  it  makes  a  long  night,  to  have  to  lie 
awake  aching !  I  know  that  by  experience.  I 
had  rheumatism  once." 

"  Did  you,  missus !  But  it  warn't  so  bad  as 
I  be?" 

"No,  not  quite,  and  I  was  stronger  to  bear 
it.  You  know  who  is  strong  to  help  you  bear  it, 
aunty?" 

"  Yes,  missus,"  said  the  poor  creature  with  a  long 
sigh; — "I  does  love  de  Lord;  sartain,  I  do.  He 
do  help.  But  I  be  so  tired  some  times ! " 

"  We'll  forget  all  that  when  we  get  to  heaven, 
aunty." 

There  was  a  faint  gleam  in  the  old  eyes,  as  they 
looked  up  to  her;  a  faint  smile  on  the  withered 
lips.  The  rays  of  that  morning  light  were  catch- 
ing the  clouds  already ! 

"Now,  aunty,  I've  brought  you  some  splendid 
tea.  Shall  I  make  you  a  cup,  right  off  ?  " 

"You  wouldn't  have  time  missus — " 

"Yes,  I  would!  Time  for  everything.  Here, 
Sabrina,  bring  a  kettle  of  boiling  water  here  and 
put  it  on  the  fire;  mind,  it  must  boil." 

And  while  the  woman  went  to  obey  the  order, 
Mrs.  Mowbray  went  on  round  the  room.  There 
were  so  many  to  speak  to,  Eotha  thought  she 
would  forget  the  kettle  and  the  tea;  but  she  did 
not.  From  the  very  door  which  should  have  let 
her  into  another  ward,  she  turned  back  The  ket- 


384  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

tie  was  boiling ;  she  ordered  several  cups ;  slie  made 
the  tea,  not  out  of  the  old  woman's  particular  pri- 
vate store ;  and  then  she  poured  it  out,  sugared  and 
creamed  and  gave  her  her  cup;  took  one  herself, 
and  gave  the  rest  to  whosoever  came  for  it.  They 
held  quite  a  little  festival  there  round  the  fire ;  for 
Mrs.  Mow  bray  brought  out  some  cake  too. 

"  Now,"  she  said  to  Rotha  as  they  hurried  away, 
"  they  will  not  forget  that  for  a  year  to  come.  I 
always  take  a  cup  of  tea  with  aunty  Lois." 

They  went  now  among  the  men,  distributing 
the  tobacco.  Rotha  admired  with  unending  ad- 
miration, the  grace  and  sweetness  and  tact  with 
which  Mrs.  Mowbray  knew  how  to  season  her 
gifts;  the  enormous  amount  of  pleasure  she  gave 
and  good  she  did  which  were  quite  independent 
of  them.  Bent  figures  straightened  up,  and  dull 
faces  shone  out,  as  she  talked.  The  very  beauty 
which  belonged  to  her  in  so  rare  measure,  Ro- 
tha saw  how  it  was  a  mighty  talent  for  good 
when  brought  thoroughly  into  the  service  of  Christ. 
She  was  a  fair  human  angel  going  about  among 
those  images  of  want  and  suffering  and  hopeless- 
ness; her  light  lingered  on  them  after  she  had 
passed  on. 

"  How  do  you  do,  uncle  Bacchus  ?  "  she  said  as 
she  approached  an  old,  gray-haired,  very  black  man 
in  a  corner.  He  rose  to  his  feet  and  shewed  a  tall, 
slim  figure,  not  bent  at  all,  though  the  indications 
of  his  face  pointed  to  very  advanced  age.  He 
bowed  profoundly,  and  with  dignity,  before  the 


BAGS  AND  BIBLES.  385 

lovely  lady  who  had  extended  her  hand  to  him, 
and  then  he  took  the  hand. 

"Nearer  home,  madam,"  he  said;  "a  year  nearer 
home." 

The  hand  trembled,  and  the  voice ;  yet  the  men- 
tal tone  of  it  was  very  firm. 

"  You  are  not  in  a  hurry  to  leave  us  ?  " 

"  It's  better  on  de  oder  side,  madam." 

"Yes,  that  is  true!  And  it  is  good  to  know 
there  is  an  '  other  side,'  isn't  it  ?  Are  you  comfort- 
able here,  uncle  Bacchus  ?  " 

'  "  Comfortable — "  he  repeated.  "  I  don'  know. 
I'm  sittin'  at  de  gates,  waitin'  till  de  Lord  say  open 
'em;  and  'pears  I'm  lookin'  dat  way  all  de  time. 
Dis  yer's  a  waitin'  place.  A  waitin.'  place." 

"Yes,  but  I  want  you  to  be  comfortable  while 
you  -are  waiting.  What  can  I  do  for  you?  The 
dear  Lord  has  sent  me  to  ask  you." 

He  smiled  a  little,  a  very  sweet  smile,  though 
the  lips  were  so  withered  on  which  it  came. 

"  Don't  want  for  not'ing,  madam.  Dis  yer'll  do 
to  wait  in.  When  I  get  home,  I'll  have  all  I  want; 
but  it's  up  dere." 

"  I  thought,  uncle  Bacchus,  you  would  like  a  very 
plain  page  to  read  the  words  in  that  you  love.  See, 
I  have  brought  you  this.  This  will  almost  do  with- 
out spectacles,  hey?" 

She  produced  a  New  Testament  in  four  thin  vol- 
umes, of  the  very  largest  and  clearest  type;  pre- 
senting a  beautiful  open  page.  The  old  man  al- 
most chuckled  as  he  received  it. 


386  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Dat  ar's  good !  "  he  said. 

"  Better  than  the  old  one,  hey  ?  " 

"  Dat  ar  certainly  is  good,"  he  repeated.  "  De  old 
un,  de  words  is  so  torturous  small,  if  I  didn't  know 
what  dey  was,  'pears  dey  wouldn't  be  no  use  to  me." 

"  Well,  then  I  made  no  mistake  this  time.  Now, 
uncle  Bacchus,  I  know  you  take  no  comfort  in  to- 
bacco ;  so  I've  brought  you  something  else — some- 
thing you  like.  Must  have  something  to  make 
Christmas  gay,  you  know." 

She  put  a  paper  of  French  bonbons  in  the  old 
man's  hand.  He  laughed,  half  at  her  and  half  at 
the  sugarplums,  Rotha  thought;  and  he  bowed 
again. 

"  De  Lord  give  madam  sumfin'  to  make  Tier  gay ! " 
he  said. 

"  Himself,  uncle  Bacchus ! " 

"  Dat's  so,  madam ! "  he  replied,  as  she  took  his 
hand  to  bid  him  good  bye. 

This  was  a  much  longer  colloquy  than  usual ;  a 
few  words  were  all  there  was  time  for,  generally ; 
and  Rotha  went  on  wondering  and  admiring  to  see 
how  Mrs.  Mowbray  could  make  those  few  words  tell 
for  the  pleasure  and  good  of  her  beneficiaries.  At 
last  the  whole  round  was  made,  the  last  package 
disposed  of,  and  Mrs.  Mowbray  and  Rotha  found 
themselves  in  the  carriage  again.  Rotha  for  her 
part  was  glad ;  she  did  not  like  the  Home,  as  I  have 
said;  the  sight  of  the  people  was  painful  to  her, 
even  with  all  the  alleviations  of  pleasure.  She  was 
glad  to  be  driving  away  from  the  place.  What 


BAGS  AND  BIBLES.  387 

did  they  know  of  Bagster's  Bibles  and  Russia  cov- 
ered travelling  bags?  Poor  creatures!  And  Ro- 
tha's  heart  was  leaping  at  thought  of  her  own. 

They  went  in  silence  for  a  while. 

"Aren't  you  very  tired,  Mrs.  Mowbray  ?"  Rotha 
ventured  at  last. 

"  Tired  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Mowbray  brightly,  rousing 
herself.  "I  don't  know !  I  don't  stop  to  think 
whether  I  am  tired.  There  will  be  plenty  of  time 
to  rest,  by  and  by." 

"That  does  not  hinder  one  from  feeling  tired 
now,"  said  Rotha,  who  did  not  enjoy  this  doctrine. 

"  No,  but  it  hinders  one  from  minding  it,"  said 
Mrs.  Mowbray.  "Do  all  you  can  for  other  people, 
Rotha ;  it  is  the  greatest  happiness  you  can  find  in 
this  life." 

"  Do  you  think  you  had  as  much  pleasure  in  get- 
ting those  things  for  me,  Mrs.  Mowbray, — my  bag 
and  my  Bible, — and  all  my  things, — as  I  had,  and 
have,  in  receiving  them  ?  " 

Mrs.  Mowbray  smiled.  "Do  they  give  you  pleas- 
ure ?  "  she  asked. 

"  More  than  you  can  think — more  than  I  can  tell. 
I  think  I  am  dreaming !  " 

"Then  that  gives  me  pleasure.  What  are  you 
going  to  do  with  your  Bible  ?  " 

"lam  going  to  study  it — "  said  Rotha  slowly; 
"and  I  am  going  to  live  by  it." 

"  Are  you  ?     Have  you  decided  that  point  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am.  But  I  am  not  good  yet,  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray. I  do  not  forgive  aunt  Serena.  It  feels  to 


388  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

me  as  if  there  was  a  stone  where  my  heart  ought 
to  be." 

"Have  you  found  that  out?"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray 
without  shewing  any  surprise.  "There  is  help,  my 
child.  Look,  when  you  get  home,  at  the  thirty 
sixth  chapter  of  Ezekiel — I  cannot  tell  you  what 
verse — and  you  will  find  it  there." 

They  had  no  more  talk  until  the  carriage  stopped 
at  home.  And  Rotha  had  no  chance  then  even  to 
open  her  Bible,  but  must  make  herself  immedi- 
ately ready  for  dinner. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

FLINT  AND  STEEL. 

THAT  Christmas  dinner  remained  a  point  of  de- 
light in  Rotha's  memory  for  ever.  The  com- 
pany was  small,  several  of  the  young  ladies  having 
accepted  invitations  to  dine  with  some  friend  or 
acquaintance.  It  was  most  agreeably  small,  to 
Rotha's  apprehension,  for  she  could  see  more  of 
Mrs.  Mowbray  and  more  informally.  Everybody 
was  in  gala  dress  and  gala  humour,  nobody  more 
than  the  mistress  of  the  house ;  and  she  had  done 
everything  in  her  power  to  make  the  Christmas 
dinner  a  gala  meal.  Flowers  and  lights  were  in 
plenty ;  the  roast  turkey  was  followed  by  ices,  con- 
fections and  fruits,  all  of  delicious  quality;  and 
Mrs.  Mowbray's  own  kind  and  gracious  ministry 
made  everything  doubly  sweet.  Rotha  had  besides 
such  joy  in  her  heart,  that  turkey  and  ices  had 
never  seemed  so  good  in  her  life.  The  whole  day 
had  been  rich,  full,  sweet,  blessed;  the  girl  had  en- 
tered a  new  sphere  where  every  want  of  her  nature 
was  met  and  contented;  under  such  conditions  the 
growth  of  a  plant  is  rapid ;  and  in  a  plant  of  hu- 
manity it  is  not  only  rapid  but  blissful. 
(389) 


390  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Christmas  joys  were  not  done  when  the  dinner 
was  over.  The  girls  who  were  present,  and  the 
one  or  two  under  teachers,  repaired  to  the  library, 
Mrs.  Mowbray's  special  domain ;  and  there  she  ex- 
erted herself  unweariedly  to  give  them  a  pleasant 
evening.  Two  of  them  sat  down  to  a  game  of 
chess;  two  of  them  were  allowed  to  look  over  some 
very  rare  and  splendid  books  of  engravings ;  one 
or  two  were  deep  in  fancy  work,  and  one  or  two 
amused  themselves  with  a  fine  microscope.  Kotha 
received  her  first  introduction  to  the  stereoscope. 
This  was  no  novelty  to  the  rest,  and  she  was  left 
in  undisturbed  enjoyment;  free  to  look  as  long  as 
she  liked  at  any  view  that  excited  her  interest. 
Which  of  them  did  not!  At  Eotha's  age,  with 
her  mind  just  opening  rapidly  and  her  intellectual 
hunger  great  for  all  sorts  of  food,  what  were  not 
the  revelations  of  the  stereoscope  to  her !  Delight 
and  wonder  went  beyond  all  power  of  words  to 
describe  them.  And  with  delight  and  wonder 
started  curiosity.  Eotha's  first  view  was  a  gorge 
in  the  Alps. 

"Where  is  it?"  she  asked.  And  Mrs.  Mowbray 
told  her. 

"  How  high  are  those  hills  ?  " 

"Keally,  I  don't  know,"  said  her  friend  laugh- 
ing. "I  will  give  you  a  guide  book  to  study." 

Rotha  thought  she  would  like  a  guide  book. 
Anything  so  majestic  as  the  sweep  of  those  moun- 
tain lines  and  the  lift  of  their  snowy  heads,  she 
had  never  imagined;  nor  anything  so  lovely  as  the 


FLINT  AND  STEEL.  391 

peace  of  that  narrow,  meadowy  valley  at  the  foot 
of  them. 

"  Is  it  as  good  really,  Mrs.  Mowbray,  as  it  looks 
here  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  It  is  better.  Don't  you  think  colour  goes  for 
anything  ?  and  the  sound  of  a  cowbell,  and  the  rush 
of  the  torrents  that  come  from  the  mountains  ?  " 

UI  can  hear  cowbells  and  the  rush  of  brooks 
here,"  said  Rotha. 

"  It  sounds  different  there." 

Slowly  and  unwillingly  and  after  long  looking 
at  it,  Eotha  laid  the  Swiss  valley  away.  Her  next 
view  happened  to  be  the  ruins  of  the  Church  at 
Fountain's  Abbey;  and  with  that  a  new  nerve  of 
pleasure  seemed  to  be  stirred.  This  was  something 
in  an  entirely  new  department,  of  knowledge  arid 
interest  both.  "How  came  people  to  let  such  a 
beautiful  church  go  to  ruin  ?  " 

Mrs.  Mowbray  went  back  to  the  Reformation, 
and  Henry  the  Eighth,  and  the  monkish  orders ;  and 
the  historical  discussion  grew  into  length.  Then  a 
very  noble  view  of  the  Fountain's  Abbey  cloisters 
opened  a  new  field  of  inquiry;  and  Rotha's  eye 
gazed  along  the  beautiful  arches  with  an  awed  ap- 
prehension of  the  life  that  once  was  lived  under 
them ;  gazed  and  marvelled  and  queried. 

"That  was  an  ugly  sort  of  life,"  she  said  at  last; 
"why  do  I  like  to  look  at  these  cloisters,  Mrs. 
Mowbray  ?  " 

Mrs.  Mowbray  laughed.  "I  suppose  your  eye 
finds  beauty  in  the  lines  of  the  architecture." 


392  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Are  they  beautiful  ?  " 

"  People  say  so,  my  dear." 

"  But  do  you  think  they  are  ?  " 

"My  dear,  I  must  confess  to  you,  I  never  paid 
much  attention  to  architecture.  I  never  asked  my- 
self the  question." 

"  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  beauty  about  them," 
said  Rotha ;  "  but  somehow  I  like  to  look  at  them. 
I  like  to  look  at  them  very  much" 

"  Here  is  another  cloister,"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray ; 
"  of  Salisbury  cathedral.  The  arches  and  lines  here 
are  less  severe.  How  do  you  like  that  ?  " 

"Not  half  so  well,"  Rotha  answered,  after  making 
the  comparison.  "I  think  Fountain's  Abbey  is 
beautiful,  compared  with  this." 

"  It  is  called,  I  believe,  one  of  the  finest  ruins  in 
England.  My  dear,  if  you  want  to  study  archi- 
tecture, I  shall  turn  you  over  to  Mr.  Fergusson's 
book.  It  is  in  the  corner  stand  in  the  breakfast 
room — two  octavo  volumes.  There  you  can  find 
all  your  questions  answered." 

Which  Rotha  did  not  however  find  to  be  the  case, 
though  Fergusson  in  after  days  was  a  good  deal 
studied  by  her  in  her  hours  of  leisure.  For  this 
evening  it  was  enough,  that  she  went  to  her  room 
with  the  feeling  that  the  world  is  very  rich  in 
things  to  be  seen  and  things  to  be  known ;  a  vast 
treasure  house  of  wonders  and  beauties  and  mys- 
teries ;  which  mysteries  must  yet  have  their  hidden 
truth  and  solution,  delightful  to  search  for,  delight- 
ful to  find.  Would  she  some  day  see  the  Alps? 


FLINT  AND  STEEL.  393 

and  what  dreadful  things  cloisters  and  the  life  lived 
in  them  must  have  been !  Her  eye  fell  on  her 
Kussia  leather  bag,  in  which  she  had  placed  her 
Bible  for  safe  keeping ;  and  her  thoughts  went  to 
the  Bible.  That  told  how  people  should  live  to 
serve  God ;  and  it  was  not  by  shutting  themselves 
up  in  cloisters.  How  then  ?  That  question  she 
deferred. 

But  took  it  up  again  the  next  day.  It  was  a 
rainy  day;  low  clouds  and  thick  beat  of  the  rain 
storm  against  the  windows  and  upon  the  street. 
Kotha  was  well  pleased.  Good  so ;  yesterday  had 
held  novelty  and  excitement  enough  for  a  week; 
to-day  she  could  be  quiet,  study  Fergusson  on  archi- 
tecture, perhaps;  and  at  all  events  study  the  life 
question  in  her  beautiful  Bible.  She  had  the  morn- 
ing to  herself  after  breakfast,  and  her  room  to  her- 
self; the  patter  and  beat  of  the  rain  drops  made 
her  feel  only  more  securely  safe  in  her  solitude  and 
opportunity.  Rotha  took  her  Bible  lovingly  in  her 
hands  and  slowly  turned  over  the  leaves  to  find 
the  thirty  sixth  chapter  of  Ezekiel.  And  unques- 
tionably, the  great  beauty  of  the  book,  of  the  paper 
and  the  limp  covers  and  the  type,  did  help  her 
pleasure  and  did  give  an  additional  zest  to  the 
work  she  was  about.  Nevertheless,  Botha  was  in 
earnest,  and  it  was  work.  The  chapter,  when  she 
found  it,  was  an  enigma  to  her.  She  read  on  and 
on,  understanding  but  very  dimly  what  might  be 
meant  under  the  words ;  till  she  came  to  the  notable 
promise  and  prophecy  beginning  with  the  twenty 


394  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

fourth  verse.  Then  her  eyes  opened,  and  lingered, 
slowly  going  over  item  after  item  of  the  help  prom- 
ised to  humanity's  wants,  and  then  she  read : — 

"  A  new  heart  also  will  I  give  you,  and  a  new 
spirit  will  I  put  within  you;  and  I  will  take  away 
the  stony  heart  out  of  your  flesh,  and  I  will  give 
you  an  heart  of  flesh." 

It  struck  Rotha  with  a  strange  sort  of  surprise, 
the  words  meeting  so  exactly  the  thought  and 
want  of  her  own  heart.  Did  He  who  gave  that 
promise,  long  ago,  know  so  well  what  she  would 
be  one  day  thinking  and  feeling  ?  But  that  was 
the  very  help  she  needed;  all  she  needed;  if  the 
heart  of  stone  within  her  were  gone,  all  the  rest 
would  fall  into  train.  Botha  waited  no  longer, 
but  poured  out  a  longing,  passionate  prayer  that 
this  mighty  change  might  be  wrought  in  her. 
Even  with  tears  she  prayed  her  prayer.  She  had 
resolved  to  be  a  Christian;  yet  she  was  not  one; 
could  not  be  one;  till  a  heart  of  flesh  took  the 
place  of  that  impassive  induration  which  was  where 
a  heart  should  be.  As  she  rose  from  her  knees, 
she  thought  she  would  follow  out  this  subject  of  a 
hard  heart,  and  see  what  else  the  Bible  said  of  it. 
She  applied  to  her  "  Treasury  of  Scripture  Knowl- 
edge"; found  the  thirty  sixth  chapter  of  Ezekiel, 
and  the  twenty  sixth  verse.  The  first  reference 
sent  her  to  the  eleventh  chapter  of  the  same  book, 
where  she  found  the  promise  already  previously 
given. 

"And  I  will  give  them  one  heart,  and  I  will  put 


FLINT  AND  STEEL.  395 

a  new  spirit  within  you;  and  I  will  take  the  stony- 
heart  out  of  their  flesh,  and  I  will  give  them  an 
heart  of  flesh;  that  they  may  walk  in  my  statutes, 
and  keep  mine  ordinances,  and  do  them;  and  they 
shall  be  my  people,  and  I  will  be  their  God." 

That  is  it !  thought  Eotha.  I  knew  I  could  not 
be  a  Christian  while  I  felt  so  as  I  do.  I  could  not 
keep  the  commandments  either.  If  I  had  a  new 
heart,  I  suppose  I  could  forgive  aunt  Serena  fast 
enough.  God  must  be  very  willing  to  take  peo- 
ple's stony  heart  away,  or  he  would  not  promise  it 
so  twice  over.  O  my  dear  "  Scripture  Treasury  " ! 
how  good  you  are ! 

Following  its  indications,  she  came  next  to  a 
word  of  the  prophet  Zechariah,  accusing  the  people 
of  obduracy:  —  "They  refused  to  hearken,  and 
pulled  away  the  shoulder,  and  stopped  their  ears, 
that  they  should  not  hear.  Yea,  they  made  their 
hearts  as  an  adamant  stone,  lest  they  should  hear 
the  law,  and  the  words  which  the  Lord  of  hosts 
hath  sent  in  his  spirit  by  the  former  prophets  " — 

Over  this  passage  Rotha  lingered,  pondering. 
Could  it  be  true  that  she  herself  was  to  blame  for 
the  very  hardness  of  heart  she  wanted  to  get  rid 
of?  Had  she  "refused  to  hearken  and  pulled  away 
the  shoulder  and  stopped  her  ears"?  What  else 
had  she  done?  when  those  "former  prophets  "to 
her,  her  mother,  and  Mr.  Digby,  had  set  duty  and 
truth  before  her  ?  They  set  it  before  her  bodily, 
too ;  and  how  fair  their  example  had  been !  and 
how  immoveable  she!  Kotha  lost  herself  for  a 


396  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

while  here,  longing  for  her  mother,  and  crying  in 
spirit  for  her  next  friend,  Mr.  Digby;  wondering 
at  his  silence,  mourning  his  absence;  and  it  was 
when  a  new  gush  of  indignation  at  her  aunt  seemed 
to  run  through  all  her  veins,  that  she  caught  her- 
self up  and  remembered  the  work  in  hand,  and 
slowly  and  sorrowfully  came  back  to  it.  How 
angry  she  was  at  Mrs.  Busby  this  minute  !  what  a 
long  way  she  was  yet,  with  all  her  wishes  and  re- 
solves, from  the  loving  tenderness  of  heart  which 
would  forgive  everything.  She  went  on,  hoping  al- 
ways for  more  light,  and  willing  to  take  the 
sharpest  charges  home  to  herself.  Yet  the  next 
reference  startled  her. 

"Some  fell  upon  stony  places,  where  they  had 
not  much  earth ;  and  forthwith  they  sprang  up  be- 
cause they  had  no  deepness  of  earth :  and  when  the 
sun  was  up,  they  were  scorched ;  " — 

Was  it  possible,  that  she  had  been  like  that  very 
bad  ground  ?  Yes,  she  knew  the  underlying  rock 
too  well.  Then  in  her  case  there  was  special  dan- 
ger of  a  flash  religion,  taken  up  for  the  minute's 
sense  of  need  or  perception  of  advantage  merely, 
and  not  rooted  so  that  it  would  stand  weather. 
Hers  should  not  be  so;  no  profession  of  being  a 
Christian  would  she  make,  till  it  was  thorough 
work;  till  at  last  she  could  forgive  her  aunt's 
treachery ;  it  would  be  pretty  thorough  if  she  could 
do  that!  But  how  long  first?  At  present  Rotha 
thought  of  her  aunt  in  terms  that  I  will  not  stop  to 
detail;  in  which  there  was  bitter  anger  and  con- 


FLINT  AND  STEEL.  397 

tempt  and  no  love  at  all.  She  knew  it,  poor  child; 
she  felt  the  difficulty;  her  only  sole  hope  was  in 
the  power  of  that  promise  in  Ezekiel,  which  she 
blessed  in  her  heart,  almost  with  tears.  That  way 
there  was  an  outlook  towards  light;  no  other  way 
in  all  her  horizon.  She  would  see  what  more  the 
Bible  had  to  say  about  it. 

Going  on  in  her  researches,  after  another  passage 
or  two  she  came  to  those  notable  words,  also  in 
Ezekiel, — 

"  Cast  away  from  you  all  your  transgressions, 
whereby  ye  have  transgressed;  and  make  you  a 
new  heart  and  a  new  spirit :  for  why  will  ye  die, 
0  house  of  Israel  ?  " 

Make  herself  a  new  heart  ?  how  could  she  ?  she 
could  not;  and  yet,  here  the  words  were,  and  they 
must  mean  something.  And  to  be  sure,  she  thought, 
a  man  is  said  to  build  him  a  new  house,  who  gets 
the  carpenter  to  make  it,  and  never  himself  puts 
hand  to  tool.  But  cast  away  her  transgressions  ? 
— that  she  could  do,  and  she  would.  From  that 
day  forth.  The  next  passage  was  in  the  fifty  first 
psalm;  David's  imploring  cry  that  the  Lord  would 
"create"  in  him  "a  new  heart";  and  then  the 
lovely  words  in  Jeremiah: — "After  those  days, 
saith  the  Lord,  I  will  put  my  law  in  their  inward 
parts,  and  write  it  in  their  hearts ;  and  will  be  their 
God,  and  they  shall  be  my  people." 

Rotha  shut  her  book.  That  was  the  very  thing 
wanted.  When  the  law  of  God  should  be  in  her 
Iwari  so,  then  all  would  be  right,  and  all  would  be 


398  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

easy  too.  It  is  easy  to  do  what  is  in  one's  heart. 
What  beautiful  words!  what  exquisite  promises! 
what  tender  meeting  of  the  wants  of  weak  and  sin- 
ful men !  Rotha  saw  all  this,  and  felt  it.  Ay,  and 
she  felt  that  every  vestige  of  excuse  was  gone  for 
persistence  in  wrong;  if  God  was  so  ready  to  put 
in  his  hand  of  love  and  power  to  make  things  right. 
And  one  more  passage  made  this  conclusively  cer- 
tain. It  was  the  thirteenth  verse  of  the  eleventh 
chapter  of  Luke. 

The  morning's  work  was  a  good  one  for  Rotha. 
She  made  up  her  mind.  That,  indeed,  she  had 
done  before ;  now  she  took  her  stand  with  a  clearer 
knowledge  of  the  ground  and  of  the  way  in  which 
the  difficulties  were  to  be  met.  By  a  new  heart, 
nothing  less;  a  heart  of  flesh;  which  indeed  she 
could  not  create,  but  which  she  could  ask  for  and 
hope  for;  and  in  the  mean  time  she  must  "cast 
away  from  her  all  her  transgressions."  No  com- 
promise, and  no  delay.  As  to  this  anger  at  her 
aunt, — well,  it  was  there,  and  she  could  not  put 
it  out;  but  allow  it  and  agree  to  it,  or  give  it  ex- 
pression, that  she  would  not  do. 

She  cast  about  her  then  for  things  to  be  done, 
neglected  duties.  No  studies  neglected  were  on 
her  conscience ;  there  did  occur  to  her  some  large 
holes  in  the  heels  of  her  stockings.  Rotha  did  not 
like  mending;  however,  here  was  duty.  She  got 
out  the  stockings  and  examined  them.  A  long 
job,  and  to  her  a  hateful  one,  for  the  stockings 
had  been  neglected.  Rotha  had  but  a  little  yarn 


FLINT  AND  STEEL.  399 

to  mend  with;  she  sat  down  to  the  work  and  kept 
at  it  until  she  had  used  up  her  last  thread.  That 
finished  the  morning,  for  the  stockings  were  fine, 
and  the  same  feeling*  of  duty  which  made  her  take 
up  the  mending  made  her  do  it  conscientiously. 

The  evening  was  spent  happily  over  the  stereo- 
scope and  Fergusson  on  Architecture.  Towards 
the  end  of  it  Mrs.  Mowbray  whispered  to  her, 

"  My  dear,  your  aunt  wishes  you  to  spen,d  a  day 
with  her ;  don't  you  think  it  would  be  a  good  plan 
to  go  to-morrow  ?  A  thing  is  always  more  grace- 
ful when  it  is  done  without  much  delay." 

Rotha  could  but  acquiesce. 

"  And  make  the  best  of  it,"  Mrs.  Mowbray  went 
on  kindly;  "and  make  the  best  of  them.  There  is 
a  best  side  to  everybody ;  it  is  good  to  try  and  get 
at  it.  The  Bible  says  'Overcome  evil  with  good.'" 

"  Can  one,  always  ?  "  said  Rotha. 

"  I  think  one  can  always — if  one  has  the  chance 
and  time.  At  any  rate,  it  is  good  to  try." 

"But  don't  you  think,  ma'am,  one  must  feel 
pleasant,  before  one  can  act  pleasant  ?  " 

"Feel  pleasant,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray  smil- 
ing. "  Can't  you  ?  " 

"You  do  not  know  how  difficult  it  is,"  said 
Rotha. 

"  Perhaps  I  do.     Hearts  are  alike." 

"  0  no,  Mrs.  Mowbray ! "  said  Rotha  in  sudden 
protest. 

"  Not  in  everything.  But  fallen  nature  is  fallen 
nature,  my  dear;  one  person's  temptations  may  be 


400  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

different  from  another's,  but  in  the  longing  to  do 
our  own  pleasure  and  have  our  own  way,  we  are 
all  pretty  much  alike.  None  of  us  has  anything  to 
boast  of.  What  you  despise,  is  the  yielding  to  a 
temptation  which  does  not  attack  you." 

Rotha's  look  at  her  friend  was  intelligent  and 
candid.  She  said  nothing. 

"And  if  you  can  meet  hatred  with  love,  it  is 
ten  to  one  you  can  overcome  it.  Wouldn't  that 
be  a  victory  worth  trying  for  ?  " 

Rotha  knew  the  victory  over  herself  was  the 
first  one  to  be  gained.  But  she  silently  acqui- 
esced; and  after  breakfast  next  morning,  with  re- 
luctant steps,  she  set  forth  to  go  to  her  aunt's  in 
Twenty-third  Street.  She  had  been  in  a  little  doubt 
how  to  dress  herself.  Should  she  wear  her  old 
things  ?  or  subject  the  new  ones  to  her  aunt's  criti- 
cism? But  Antoinette  had  seen  the  pretty  plaid 
school  dress ;  it  would  be  foolish  to  make  any  mys- 
tery of  it.  She  dressed  herself  as  usual. 

Mrs.  Busby  and  her  daughter  were  in  the  sitting 
room  up  stairs.  Rotha  had  knocked,  modestly,  and 
as  she  went  in  they  both  lifted  up  their  heads  and 
looked  at  her,  with  a  long  look  of  survey.  Ro- 
tha had  come  quite  up  to  them  before  her  aunt 
spoke. 

"  Well,  Rotha,— so  it  is  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Have  you  come  to  see  me  at  last  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am.  Mrs.  Mowbray  said  you  wished 
it." 


FLINT  AND  STEEL.  401 

"What  made  you  choose  to-day  particularly?" 

"Nothing.     Mrs.  Mowbray  said — " 

"  Well,  go  on.     What  did  Mrs.  Mowbray  say  ?  " 

"She  said  you  wanted  to  have  me  come,  some 
day,  and  she  thought  I  had  better  do  it  to-day." 

"  Yes.     Did  she  give  no  reason  ?  " 

"No.     At  least—" 

"  At  least  what  ?  " 

Eotha  had  no  skill  whatever  in  prevarication, 
nor  understood  the  art.  Nothing  occurred  to  her 
but  to  tell  the  truth. 

"  Mrs.  Mowbray  said  a  thing  was  more  graceful 
that  was  done  promptly." 

The  slightest  possible  change  in  the  set  of  Mrs. 
Busby's  lips,  the  least  perceptible  air  of  her  head, 
expressed  what  another  woman  might  have  told 
by  a  snort  of  disdain.  Mrs.  Busby's  manner  was 
quite  as  striking,  Rotha  thought.  Her  own  anger 
was  rising  fast. 

"  O,  and  I  suppose  she  is  teaching  you  to  do  things 
gracefully  ?  "  said  Antoinette.  "  Mamma,  the  idea ! " 

"  It  did  not  occur  to  her  or  you  that  I  might  like 
to  see  my  niece  occasionally  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Busby. 

Rotha  bit  her  lips  and  succeeded  in  biting  down 
the  answer. 

" We  have  not  grown  very  graceful  yet"  Antoi- 
nette went  on.  "  It  is  usually  thought  civilized  to 
answer  people." 

"You  had  better  take  off  your  things,"  Mrs.  Busby 
said.  "  You  may  lay  them  up  stairs  in  your  room." 

"  Is  there  any  reason  which  makes  this  an  incon- 


402  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

venient  day  for  me  to  be  here  ?  "  Rotha  asked  be- 
fore moving  to  obey  this  command. 

"It  makes  no  difference.  The  proper  time  for 
putting  such  a  question,  if  you  want  to  do  things 
gracefully,  is  before  taking  your  action,  while  the 
answer  can  also  be  given  gracefully,  if  unfavour- 
able." 

Rotha  went  slowly  up  stairs,  feeling  that  or  any 
other  place  in  the  house  better  than  the  room 
where  her  aunt  was.  She  went  to  her  little  cold, 
cheerless,  desolate-looking,  old  room.  How  she 
had  suffered  there !  how  thankful  she  was  to  be 
in  it  no  more !  how  changed  were  her  circum- 
stances! Could  she  not  be  good  and  keep  the 
peace,  this  one  day?  She  had  purposed  to  be 
very  good,  and  calm,  like  Mr.  Digby;  and  now 
already  she  felt  as  if  a  bunch  of  nettles  had  been 
drawn  all  over  her.  What  an  unmanageable  thing 
was  this  temper  of  hers.  She  went  down  stairs 
slowly  and  lingeringly.  The  two  looked  at  her 
again  as  she  entered  the  room ;  now  that  her  cloak 
was  off,  the  new  dress  came  into  view. 

"Where  did  you  get  that  dress,  Rotha?"  was  her 
aunt's  question. 

"  Mrs.  Mowbray  got  it  for  me." 

"  Does  she  propose  to  send  me  the  bill  by 
and  by  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not !  Aunt  Serena,  Mrs.  Mowbray 
never  does  mean  things." 

"  H'm !  What  induced  her  then  to  go  to  such  ex- 
pense for  a  girl  she  never  saw  before  ?  " 


FLINT  AND  STEEL.  403 

"  I  suppose  she  was  sorry  for  me,"  said  Kotha, 
with  her  heart  swelling. 

"  Sorry  for  you !     May  I  ask,  why  ?  " 

"You  know  how  I  was  dressed,  aunt  Serena;  and 
you  know  how  the  other  girls  in  school  dress." 

"I  know  a  great  many  of  them  have  foolish 
mothers,  who  make  themselves  ridiculous  by  the 
way  they  let  their  children  appear.  It  is  a  train- 
ing of  vanity.  I  should  not  have  thought  Mrs. 
Mowbray  would  lend  herself  to  such  nonsense." 

"  But  you  do  not  think  Antoinette  has  a  foolish 
mother  ?  "  Rotha  could  not  help  saying.  Mrs.  Bus- 
by's daughter  was  quite  as  much  dressed  as  the 
other  girls.  That  she  ought  not  to  have  made  that 
speech,  Rotha  knew ;  but  she  made  it.  So  much  sat- 
isfaction she  must  have.  It  remained  however  com- 
pletely ignored. 

"  Who  made  your  dress  ?  "  Mrs.  Busby  went  on. 

"A  dress-maker.  One  of  the  ladies  went  with 
me  to  have  it  cut." 

"  What  did  you  do  Christmas  ?  "  Antoinette  in- 
quired. In  reply  to  which,  Rotha  gave  an  account 
of  her  visit  to  the  Old  Coloured  Home. 

"Just  like  Mrs.  Mowbray!"  was  Mrs.  Busby's 
comment.  "  She  has  no  discretion." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that,  aunt  Serena  ?  " 

"Such  an  expenditure  of  money  for  nothing. 
What  good  would  a  little  tea  and  a  little  tobacco 
do  those  people  ?  It  would  not  last  more  than  a 
week  or  two ;  and  then  they  are  just  where  they 
were  before." 


404  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  But  it  did  not  cost  so  very  much,"  objected  Rotha. 

"  Have  you  reckoned  it  up  ?  Fifty  or  sixty  half- 
pounds  of  tea,  fifty  or  sixty  pounds  of  sugar, — 
why,  the  sugar  alone  would  be  five  or  six  dollars ; 
and  the  tobacco,  and  the  carriage  hire;  and  I  don't 
know  what  beside.  All  for  nothing.  That  woman 
does  not  know  what  to  do  with  money." 

"  But  is  it  not  something,  to  make  so  many  poor 
people  happy,  if  even  only  for  a  little  while  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  a  great  deal  better  to  give  them 
something  to  do  them  good;  a  flannel  petticoat, 
now,  or  a  pair  of  warm  socks.  That  would  last. 
Or  putting  the  money  in  the  funds  of  the  Institu 
tion,  where  it  would  go  to  their  daily  needs.  I  al- 
ways think  of  that." 

"  Would  it  go  to  their  daily  needs  ?  Some  ladies 
got  a  cow  for  them  once;  and  it  just  gave  the 
matron  cream  for  her  tea,  and  they  got  no  good 
of  it." 

"I  don't  believe  that  at  all!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Busby.  "I  know  the  matron;  Mrs.  Bothers;  I 
know  her,  for  I  recommended  her  myself.  I  have 
no  idea  she  would  be  guilty  of  any  such  impro- 
priety. It  is  just  the  gossip  in  the  house,  that 
Mrs.  Mowbray  has  taken  up  in  her  haste  and 
swallowed." 

Rotha  tried  to  hold  her  tongue.     It  was  hard. 

"  Did  Mrs.  Mowbray  give  you  anything  Christ 
mas  ? "  Antoinette  asked,  pushing  her  inquiries. 
Rotha  hesitated,  but  could  find  no  way  to  answei 
without  admitting  the  affirmative. 


FLINT  AND  STEEL.  405 

"What?"  was  the  immediate  next  question; 
and  even  Mrs.  Busby  looked  with  ill-pleased  eyes 
to  hear  Rotha' s  next  words.  It  seemed  like  mak- 
ing her  precious  things  common,  to  tell  of  them  to 
these  unkind  ears.  Yet  there  was  no  help  for  it. 

"She  gave  me  a  travelling  hand-bag." 

"What  sort?" 

"  Russia  leather." 

"  There,  mamma ! "  Antoinette  exclaimed.  "  Isn't 
that  Mrs.  Mowbray  all  over?  When  a  morocco 
one,  or  a  canvas  one,  would  have  done  just  as 
well." 

"  As  I  said,"  returned  Mrs.  Busby.  "  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray  does  not  know  what  to  do  with  money.  When 
are  you  going  travelling,  Rotha  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.  Some  time  in  my  life,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"  What  a  ridiculous  thing  to  give  her !  "  pursued 
Antoinette. 

"Yes,  I  think  so,"  her  mother  echoed.  "Do  not 
let  yourself  be  deluded,  Rotha,  by  presents  of  trav- 
elling bags  or  anything  else.  Your  future  life  is 
not  likely  to  be  spent  in  pleasuring.  What  I  can 
do  for  you  in  the  way  of  giving  you  an  education, 
will  be  all  I  can  do;  then  you  will  have  to  make  a 
living  and  a  home  for,  yourself;  and  the  easiest  way 
you  can  do  it  will  be  by  teaching.  I  shall  tell  Mrs. 
Mowbray  to  educate  you  for  some  post  in  which 
perhaps  she  can  put  you  by  and  by;  she  or  some- 
body else.  So  pack  up  your  expectations ;  you  will 
not  need  to  do  much  of  other  sorts  of  packing." 


406  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"You  forget  there  is  another  person  to  be  con- 
sulted, aunt  Serena." 

"What  other  person?"  said  Mrs.  Busby  rais- 
ing her  head  and  fixing  her  observant  eyes  upon 
Rotha. 

"Mr.  Southwode." 

"  Mr.  Southwode ! "  repeated  the  lady  coldly. 
"  I  am  ignorant  what  a  stranger  like  him  has  to 
say  about  our  family  affairs." 

"  He  is  not  a  stranger,"  said  Eotha  hotly.  "  He 
is  the  person  I  know  best  in  the  world,  and  love 
best.  He  is  the  person  to  whom  I  belong;  that 
mother  left  me  to;  and  it  is  for  him,  not  for  you,  to 
say  what  I  shall  do,  or  what  I  shall  be." 

Imprudent  Rotha!  But  passion  is  always  impru- 
dent. 

"  Very  improper  language !  "  said  Mrs.  Busby 
coldly.  "When  a  young  lady  speaks  so  of  a 
young  gentleman,  what  are  we  to  think  ?  " 

"I  am  not  a  young  lady,"  said  Rotha;  "and  he 
is  not  a  young  gentleman ;  at  least,  not  very  young ; 
and  you  may  think  the  truth,  which  is  what  I  say." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  have  arranged  to  marry 
Mr.  Southwode?"  said  the  lady,  fixing  her  keen 
little  eyes  upon  Rotha's  face. 

Rotha's  face  flamed,  with  jningled  indignation 
and  shame;  she  deigned  no  answer. 

"  She  doesn't  speak,  mamma,"  said  Antoinette 
mischievously.  "  You  may  depend,  that's  the  plan. 
Rotha  and  Mr.  Southwode!  I  declare,  that's  too 
good !  So  that's  the  arrangement !  " 


FLINT  AND  STEEL.  407 

"  I  am  so  ashamed  that  I  cannot  speak  to  you," 
said  Rotha  in  her  passion  and  humiliation.  "  How 
can  you  say  such  wicked  things!  I  wish  Mr. 
South wode  was  here  to  give  you  a  proper  answer." 

"  What,  you  think  he  would  take  your  part  ? " 
said  her  aunt. 

"  He  always  did.  He  would  now.  He  will  yet, 
aunt  Serena." 

"  That  is  enough ! "  said  Mrs.  Busby,  becoming 
excited  a  little  on  her  part.  "  Hush,  Antoinette ;  I 
will  have  no  more  of  this  very  unedifying  conver- 
sation. But  you,  Rotha,  may  as  well  know  that 
you  will  never  see  Mr.  Southwode  again.  He  is 
engaged  in  England  with  the  affairs  of  his  father's 
business;  he  will  probably  soon  marry;  and  then 
there  is  no  chance  whatever  that  he  will  ever  re- 
turn to  America.  So  you  had  best  consider  whether 
it  is  worth  while  to  offend  the  friends  you  have 
left,  for  the  sake  of  one  who  is  nothing  to  you 
any  more." 

"  I  know  Mr.  Southwode  better  than  that,"  was 
Rotha's  answer.  But  the  girl's  face  was  purple 
with  honest  shame. 

"  You  expect  he  will  come  back  and  make  you 
his  wife  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Busby  scornfully. 

"  1  expect  he  will  come  back  and  take  care  of 
me.  You  might  as  well  talk  of  his  making  that 
pussy  cat  his  wife.  I  am  just  a  poor  girl,  and  no 
more.  But  he  will  take  care  of  me.  I  know  he 
will,  if  I  have  to  wait  ten  years  first." 

"  How  old  are  you  now  ?  " 


408  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"Sixteen,  almost." 

"  Then  in  ten  years  you  will  be  twenty  six.  My 
dear,  there  is  only  one  way  in  which  Mr.  South- 
wode  could  take  care  of  you  then ;  he  must  make 
you  his  wife,  or  leave  it  to  somebody  else  to  take 
care  of  you.  He  knows  that  as  well  as  I  do ;  and 
so  he  put  you  in  my  hands.  Now  let  us  make  an 
end  of  this  disgraceful  scene.  Before  ten  years 
are  past,  you  will  probably  be  the  wife  of  some- 
body else.  All  this  talk  is  very  foolish." 

Rotha  thought  it  was,  but  also  thought  the 
fault  was  not  in  her  part  of  it.  She  sat  glowing 
with  confusion;  she  felt  as  if  the  blood  would 
verily  start  through  her  skin;  and  angry  in  pro- 
portion. Still  she  was  silent,  though  Antoinette 
laughed. 

"What  a  farce,  mamma!  To  think  of  Rotha 
being  in  love  with  Mr.  South wode ! " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Nettie." 

"  To  love,  and  to  be  in  love,  are  two  things," 
said  Rotha  hotly.  "  I  do  not  know  what  being  in 
love  means;  I  do  know  the  other." 

"O  mamma! — she  doesn't  know  what  it  means!" 

"  I  told  you  to  be  quiet,  Antoinette." 

"I  didn't  hear  it,  mamma.  But  I  think  you 
might  reprove  Rotha  for  saying  what  is  not  true." 

"  That  is  what  I  never  do,"  said  Rotha. 

Mrs.  Busby  here  interfered,  and  ordered  Rotha 
to  go  up  stairs  to  her  room  and  stay  there  till  she 
could  command  herself.  Rotha  went. 

"  Mamma,"  said  Antoinette  then,  "  I  do  believe 


FLINT  AND  STEEL.  409 

it  is  earnest  about  her  and  Mr.   Southwode.     In 
her  mind,  I  mean.     Did  you  see  how  she  coloured  ?  " 
"  I  should  not  be  at  all   surprised,"  said,  Mrs. 
Busby. 

"  When  is  he  coming  back,  mamma?" 

"  I  cannot  say.     I  think  he  does  not  know  him- 

v 

self.     He  writes  that  he  is  very  busy  at  present." 

"  But  he  will  come  back,  you  think  ?  " 

"He  says  so.  Antoinette,  say  nothing — not  a 
word  more — about  him  to  Rotha.  She  has  got  her 
head  turned,  and  it  is  best  she  should  hear  nothing 
whatever  about  him.  I  shall  take  good  care  that 
she  never  sees  him  again." 

"  Mamma,  lie  don't  care  for  her  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not.  He  is  too  much  a  man  of  the 
world." 

There  was  silence. 

"Mamma,"  Antoinette  began  after  a  pause,  "do 
you  think  Rotha  is  handsome  ?  " 

"She  is  very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Busby  in  an  in- 
different tone. 

"They  think  at  school,  that  is,  the  teachers  do, 
that  she  is  a  beauty." 

"  I  dare  say  they  have  told  her  so." 

"  And  you  see  how  Mrs.  Mowbray  has  dressed 
her  up." 

"  I  would  not  have  sent  her  there,  if  I  had  known 
how  it  would  be.  However,  I  could  not  arrange 
for  her  so  cheaply  anywhere  else." 

"  What  would  you  do,  mamma,  if  Mr.  Southwode 
were  coming  back  ?  " 


410  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  I  should  know,  in  that  case.  He  will  not  come 
yet  a  while.  Now  Antoinette,  let  this  subject 
alone." 

"Yes,  mamma.  You  are  a  clever  woman.  I 
don't  believe  even  Mr.  Southwode  could  manage 
you." 

"I  can  manage  Mr.  Southwode!"  said  Mrs. 
Busby  contentedly. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A  NEW   DEPARTURE. 

ROTHA  found  her  room  too  cold  to  stay  in,  after 
the  first  heat  of  her  wrath  had  passed  off. 
The  only  warm  place  that  she  knew  of,  beside  her 
aunt's  dressing  room,  was  the  parlour;  and  after 
a  little  hesitation  arid  shivering,  she  softly  crept 
down  the  stairs.  The  warm,  luxurious  place  was 
empty,  of  people,  that  is;  and  before  the  glowing 
grate  Rotha  sat  down  on  the  rug  and  looked  at  the 
situation.  Or  she  looked  at  that  and  the  room  to- 
gether; the  latter  made  her  incensed.  It  was  so 
full  of  luxury.  The  soft  plush  carpet,  the  thick  rug 
on  which  she  was  crouching;  how  they  glowed 
warm  and  rich  in  the  red  shine  of  the  fiery  grate; 
how  beautiful  the  crimson  ground  was,  and  how 
dainty  the  drab  tints  of  the  flowers  running  over  it. 
How  stately  the  curtains  fell  to  the  floor  with  their 
bands  of  drab  and  crimson;  and  the  long  mirror 
between  them,  redoubling  all  the  riches  reflected 
in  it.  What  a  magnificent  extension  table,  really 
belonging  in  the  dining  room,  but  doing  duty 
now  as  a  large  centre  table,  only  it  was  shoved  up 
in  one  corner;  and  upon  it  the  gas  fixture  stood, 
(ill) 


412  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

with  its  green  glass  shaft  and  its  cut  glass  shade 
full  of  bunches  of  grapes.  Nothing  else  was  on  the 
table;  not  a  book;  not  a  trinket;  and  so  all  the  rest 
of  the  room  was  bare  of  everything  but  furniture. 
The  furniture  was  elegant;  but  the  chairs  stood 
round  the  sides  of  the  room  with  pitiless  regularity 
and  seemed  waiting  for  somebody  that  would  never 
come.  Empty  riches !  nothing  else.  At  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray's  Eotha  was  in  another  world,  socially  and 
humanly.  Books  swarmed  from  the  shelves  and 
lay  on  every  table;  pictures  hung  on  the  walls 
and  stood  on  the  mantelpieces;  here  and  there  some 
lovely  statuette  delighted  the  eye  by  its  beauty  or 
the  mind  by  its  associations;  flowers  were  sure  to 
be  in  a  glass  or  a  dish  somewhere;  and  all  over 
there  were  traces  of  travel  and  of  cultivation,  in 
bits  of  marble,  or  bits  of  bronze,  or  photographs, 
or  relics,  telling  of  various  ages  and  countries  and 
nationalities.  Here,  in  Mrs.  Busby's  handsome 
rooms,  the  pretty  hanging  lamps  were  exceedingly 
new,  and  they  were  the  only  bronze  to  be  seen. 
Kotha  studied  it  all  and  made  these  comparisons 
for  a  while,  in  a  vague,  purposeless  reverie,  while  she 
was  getting  warm ;  but  then  her  thoughts  began  to 
come  to  a  point.  Everything  and  everybody  in  this 
house  was  utterly  unsympathetic  to  her;  animate  or 
inanimate ;  was  this  her  home  ?  In  no  sense  of  the 
word.  Had  not  her  aunt  just  informed  her,  in  effect, 
that  she  had  no  home;  that  if  she  lived  to  grow  up 
she  must  make  her  own  way  and  earn  her  own 
bread,  or  have  none.  Antoinette  would  grow  up 


A  NEW  DEPARTURE.  413 

to  all  this  luxury,  and  in  all  this  luxury;  while  she 
would  be  penniless,  and  homeless.  Had  she  brought 
this  upon  herself?  Well,  she  might  have  been  more 
conciliating ;  but  m  her  heart  of  hearts  Rotha  did 
not  wish  she  had  been  other  than  she  had  been. 
A  home  or  friends  to  be  gained  only  by  subservi- 
ency and  truckling,  she  did  not  covet.  There  came 
a  little  whisper  of  conscience  here,  suggesting  that 
a  medium  existed  between  truckling  and  defiance ; 
that  it  was  a  supposable  case  that  one  might  be  so 
pure  and  fair  in  life  and  spirit,  that  the  involuntary 
liking  and  respect  of  friends  and  acquaintances 
would  follow  of  necessity.  Was  not  Mr.  Digby 
such  a  person?  did  not  Mrs.  Mowbray  win  good-will 
wherever  she  appeared?  and  Rotha  was  just  enough 
to  acknowledge  to  herself  that  her  own  demeanour 
had  been  nothing  less  than  love-winning.  Alas, 
how  could  she  help  it,  unless  she  were  indeed  made 
over  new;  a  different  creature.  How  else  could 
she  bear  what  must  be  borne  in  this  house  ?  But 
in  this  house  she  was  an  outcast;  they  would  have 
nothing  to  do  with  her  more  than  to  see  her  through 
her  schooling;  there  was  no  shelter  or  refuge  here 
to  which  she  could  ever  look.  Nor  did  she  care  for 
it,  if  only  Mr.  Digby  would  come  again.  0  was  he 
lost  to  her  ?  Had  he  really  forgotten  her  ?  would 
he  forget  his  promise  ?  Rotha  did  not  believe  it ;  her 
faith  in  him  was  steadfast;  but  she  did  conceive 
it  possible  that  business  and  circumstances  might 
keep  him  where  his  promise  would  be  rendered  of 
little  avail ;  and  her  heart  was  wrung  with  distress 


414  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

at  the  thought  of  this  possibility.  Distress,  which 
but  for  Mrs.  Mowbray  would  have  been  desolation. 
Even  as  it  was,  Rotha  felt  very  desolate,  very  blank ; 
and  she  remembered  again  what  Mr.  Digby  had 
said,  about  a  time  that  might  come  when  all  other 
help  would  fail  her  and  she  would  be  driven  to  seek 
God.  All  help  had  not  failed  yet;  Mrs.  Mowbray 
was  a  blessed  good  friend ;  but  she  was  all,  and  Ro- 
tha had  no  claim  upon  her.  I  will  not  wait  to  be 
driven,  she  thought;  I  will  not  wait  -to  be  driven 
by  extremity ;  things  are  bad  enough  as  it  is ;  I  will 
seek  God  now. —  I  have  been  seeking  him. — Mr. 
Digby  said  I  must  keep  on  seeking,  until  I  found. 
I  will.  But  in  the  mean  time  I  choose.  I  choose 
I  will  be  a  Christian,  and  that  means,  a  servant  of 
Jesus.  I  will  be  his  servant,  no  matter  what  he 
bids  me  do.  From  this  time  on,  I  will  be  his  ser- 
vant. And  then,  some  time,  he  will  keep  his  word 
and  take  the  stony  heart  out  of  me,  and  give  me  a 
new  heart;  a  heart  of  flesh,  I  wonder  how  I  came 
to  be  so  hard  ! 

It  was  a  step  in  advance  of  all  Rotha  had  made 
yet.  It  was  the  step,  which  introduces  a  sinner 
into  the  pathway  of  a  Christian ;  before  which  that 
path  is  not  entered,  however  much  it  may  be  looked 
at  and  thought  desirable.  Rotha  had  made  her 
choice  and  given  her  allegiance;  for  she  at  once 
told  it  to  the  Lord  arid  asked  his  blessing. 

And  then,  forthwith,  came  the  trial  of  her  sin- 
cerity. The  cross  was  presented  to  her ;  which  the 
Lord  says  those  must  take  up  and  bear  daily  who 


A  NEW  DEPARTURE.  415 

would  follow  him.  People  think  that  crosses  start 
up  in  every  path ;  it  is  a  mistake ;  they  are  only 
found  in  the  way  of  following  Christ  and  in  conse- 
quence of  such  following.  They  are  things  that 
may  be  taken  up  arid  carried  along;  that  must  be, 
if  the  Christian  follows  his  Master;  but  that  he 
may  escape  if  he  will  turn  aside  from  following  him 
and  go  with  the  world.  They  are  of  many  kinds,  but 
all  furnished  by  the  world  and  Satan  without,  or  by 
self-will  within.  The  form  which  the  cross  took 
on  this  occasion  for  Rotha  was  of  the  latter  kind. 
Conscience  whispered  a  reminder — "  If  thou  bring 
thy  gift  to  the  altar,  and  there  rememberest  that 
thy  brother  hath  ought  against  thee — "  And  in- 
stantly Kotha's  whole  soul  rose  up  in  protest. 
Make  an  apology  to  her  aunt  now  ?  Humble  her- 
self to  confess  herself  wrong,  when  the  wrong  done 
to  her  was  so  manyfold  greater  ?  Bend  to  the  hard- 
ness that  would  crush  her  ?  Justify  another's  evil 
by  confessing  her  own  ?  Self-will  gave  her  an  in- 
dignant "  Impossible ! "  And  conscience  with  quiet 
persistence  held  forth  the  cross.  Rotha  put  both 
hands  to  her  face  and  swayed  up  and  down,  with 
a  kind  of  bodily  struggle,  which  symbolized  that 
going  on  in  her  mind.  It  was  hard,  it  was  hard ! 
Nature  cried  out,  with  a  repulsion  that  seemed  un- 
conquerable, against  taking  up  this  cross ;  yet  there 
it  was  before  her,  in  the  inexorable  hands  of  con- 
science, and  Grace  said,  "  Do  it ;  take  it  up  and  bear 
it."  And  Nature  and  Grace  fought.  But  all  the 
while,  down  at  the  bottom  of  the  girl's  heart,  was  a 


41G  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

certain  knowledge  that  the  cross  must  be  borne ;  a 
certain  prevision  that  she  would  yield  and  take  it 
up;  that  she  must,  if  her  new  determination  meant 
anything;  and  Rotha  felt  she  could  not  afford  to  let 
it  vanish  in  air.  She  struggled,  rebelled,  repined, 
and  ended  with  yielding.  Her  will  submitted,  and 
she  said  in  her  heart,  "  I  must,  and  I  will." 

There  came  a  sort  of  tired  lull  over  her  then, 
which  was  grateful,  after  the  battle.  She  consid- 
ered when  she  should  do  this  thing,  which  it 
was  so  disagreeable  to  do.  She  could  not  quite 
make  up  her  mind;  but  at  the  first  opportunity, 
whenever  that  might  be.  Before  she  left  the  house 
at  any  rate,  if  even  she  had  to  make  the  oppor- 
tunity she  wanted. 

Then  she  thought  she  would  return  to  her  little 
cold  room  again,  before  anybody  found  her  in  the 
parlour.  She  was  thoroughly  warmed  up,  she  had 
no  more  thinking  to  do  just  then ;  and  if  need  be 
she  would  lay  herself  on  the  bed  and  cover  herself 
with  blankets,  and  so  wait  till  luncheon  time.  As 
she  went  up  stairs,  something  happened  that  she 
did  not  expect ;  there  stole  into  her  heart  as  it  were 
a  rill  of  gladness,  which  swelled  and  grew.  "  Yes, 
Jesus  is  my  King,  she  thought,  and  I  am  his  child. 
0 1  don't  care  now  for  anything,  for  Jesus  is  my  King, 
and  He  will  help  and  take  care."  She  went  sing- 
ing that  Name  in  her  heart  all  the  way  up  stairs; 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life  the  sweetness  of  it  was 
sweet  to  her ;  for  the  first  time,  the  strength  of  it 
was  something  to  lean  upon.  Ay,  she  was  right; 


A  NEW  DEPARTURE.  417 

she  had  stepped  over  the  narrow  boundary  line  be- 
tween the  realm  of  the  Prince  of  this  world  and  the 
kingdom  of  Christ.  She  had  submitted  herself  to 
the  one  Kuler;  she  was  no  longer  under  the  do- 
minion of  the  other.  And  with  her  first  entrance 
into  the  kingdom  of  the  Prince  of  peace,  she  had 
stepped  out  of  the  darkness  into  the  light,  and  the 
air  of  that  new  country  blew  softly  upon  her.  0 
wonderful!  0  sweet!  0  strange! — that  such  a 
change  should  be  so  quickly  made,  and  yet  so  hard 
to  make.  Eotha  had  not  fought  all  her  battles  nor 
got  rid  of  all  her  enemies,  but  that  the  latter  should 
have  no  more  dominion  over  her  she  felt  confident. 
She  was  a  different  creature  from  the  Rotha  who 
had  fled  down  stairs  an  hour  or  two  before  in  wrath 
and  bitterness. 

It  was  very  cold  up  stairs.  She  lay  down  and 
covered  herself  with  blankets  and  went  to  sleep. 

She  was  called  to  luncheon ;  got  up  and  smoothed 
her  hair  as  well  as  she  could  with  her  hands,  and 
thought  over  what  she  had  to  do.  She  had  to  set 
her  teeth  and  go  at  it  like  a  forlorn-hope  upon  a 
battery,  but  she  did  not  flinch  at  all. 

Mr.  Busby  was  at  luncheon,  which  was  unusual 
and  she  had  not  counted  upon.  He  was  gracious. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Rotha  ?  Bless  me,  how  you 
have  improved !  grown  too,  1  declare." 

"  There  was  no  need  of  that,  papa,"  said  Antoi- 
nette, who  was  going  to  be  a  dumpy. 

"  What  has  Mrs.  Mowbray  done  to  you  ?  I  really 
hardly  know  you  again." 


418  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"Fine  feathers,  papa." 

"  Mrs.  Mowbray  has  been  very  kind  to  me,"  Ro- 
tha  managed  to  get  in  quietly. 

"  She's  growing  handsome,  wife ! "  Mr.  Busby 
declared  as  he  took  his  seat  at  the  table.  • 

"You  shouldn't  say  such  things  to  young  girls, 
Mr.  Busby,"  said  his  wife  reprovingly. 

"  Shouldn't  I  ?  Why  not  ?  It  is  expected  that 
they  will  hear  enough  of  that  sort  of  thing  when 
they  get  a  little  older." 

"  Why  should  they,  Mr.  Busby  ?  "  asked  Rotha, 
innocently  curious. 

"Yes  indeed,  why  should  they  ?  "  echoed  her  aunt. 

"  Why  should  they  ?  I  don't  know.  As  I  said, 
it  is  expected.  Young  ladies  usually  demand  such 
tribute  from  their  admirers." 

"To  tell  them  they  are  handsome  ?  "  said  Rotha. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Busby  looking  at  her.  "  Ladies 
like  it.  Wouldn't  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  I  should  not  like  it  at  all,"  said  Rotha  colouring 
with  a  little  excitement.  "  I  don't  mind  your  say- 
ing so,  Mr.  Busby;  you  have  a  right  to  say  any- 
thing you  like  to  me;  but  if  any  stranger  said  it,  I 
should  think  he  was  very  impertinent." 

"You  don't  know  much  yet,"  said  Mr.  Busby. 

"  There  is  small  danger  that  Rotha  will  ever  be 
troubled  with  that  sort  of  impertinence,"  said  Mrs. 
Busby,  with  that  peculiar  air  of  her  head,  which 
always  meant  that  she  thought  a  good  deal  more 
than  she  spoke  out  at  the  minute. 

"Maybe,"  returned  her  husband;    "but  she  is 


A  NEW  DEPARTURE.  419 

going  to  deserve  it,  I  can  tell  you.  She'll  be  hand- 
somer than  ever  Antoinette  will." 

Which  remark  seemed  to  Rotha  peculiarly  un- 
lucky for  her  just  that  day.  Mrs.  Busby  reddened 
with  displeasure  though  she  held  her  tongue.  An- 
toinette was  not  capable  of  such  forbearance. 

"Papa!"  she  said,  breaking  out  into  tears,  "that 
is  very  unkind  of  you  ! " 

"  Well,  don't  snivel,"  said  her  father.  "  You  are 
pretty  enough,  if  you  keep  a  smooth  face;  but 
don't  you  suppose  there  are  other  people  in  the 
world  handsomer?  Be  sensible." 

"  It  is  difficult  not  to  be  hurt,  Mr.  Busby,"  said 
his  wife,  pressing  her  lips  together. 

"  Mamma ! "  cried  Antoinette  in  a  very  injured 
tone,  "  he  called  me  '  pretty '  ?  " 

"  Aint  you  ?  "  said  her  father,  becoming  a  little 
provoked.  "  I  thought  you  knew  you  were.  But 
Rotha  is  going  to  be  a  beauty.  It  is  no  injury  to 
you,  my  child." 

"  You  seem  to  forget  it  may  be  an  injury  to  Ro- 
tha, Mr.  Busby." 

Whether  Mr.  Busby  forgot  it,  or  whether  he  did 
not  care,  he  made  no  reply  to  this  suggestion. 

"  I  never  tell  Antoinette  she  will  be  a  beauty," 
Mrs.  Busby  went  on  severely. 

"Well,  I  don't  think  she  will.     Not  her  style." 

"  Is  it  my  style  to  be  ugly,  papa  ? "  cried  the 
injured  daughter. 

"Where  will  you  see  such  a  skin  as  Antoi- 
nette's?" asked  the  mother. 


420  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"Skin  isn't  everything.  My  dear,  don't  be  per- 
verse," said  Mr.  Busby,  in  his  husky  tones  which 
sounded  so  oddly.  "Nettie's  a  pretty  little  girl, 
and  I  am  glad  of  it;  but  don't  you  go  to  making 
a  fool  of  her  by  making  her  think  she  is  more. 
You  had  just  as  fine  a  skin  when  I  married  you ; 
but  that  wasn't  what  I  married  you  for." 

Rotha  wondered  what  her  aunt  had  married  Mr. 
Busby  for!  However,  if  there  had  once  been  a 
peach-blossom  skin  at  one  end  of  the  table,  per- 
haps there  had  been  also  some  corresponding  charm 
at  the  other  end;  a  sweet  voice,  for  instance.  Both 
equally  gone  now.  Meantime  Antoinette  was  cry- 
ing, and  Mrs.  Busby  looking  more  annoyed  than 
Rotha  had  ever  seen  her.  Her  self-command  still 
did  not  fail  her,  and  she  pursed  up  her  lips  and 
kept  silence.  Rotha  wanted  a  potatoe,  but  the 
potatoes  were  before  Mrs.  Busby,  and  she  dared 
not  ask  for  it.  The  silence  was  terrible. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Nettie  ?  "  said  her  father  at 
length.  "Don't  be  silly.  I  don't  believe  Rotha 
would  cry  if  I  told  her  her  skin  was  brown." 

"  You've  said  enough  to  please  Rotha !  "  Antoi- 
nette sobbed. 

"And  it  is  unnecessary  to  be  constantly  com- 
paring your  daughter  with  some  one  else,"  said 
Mrs.  Busby.  "Can't  we  talk  of  some  other  sub- 
ject, more  useful  and  agreeable  ?  " 

Then  Rotha  summoned  up  her  courage,  with  her 
heart  beating. 

"May  I  speak  of  another  subject?"  she  said. 


A  NEW  DEPARTURE.  421 

"  Aunt  Serena,  I  have  been  wanting  to  tell  you — I 
have  been  waiting  for  a  chance  to  tell  you — that 
I  want  to  beg  your  pardon." 

Mrs.  Busby  made  no  answer;  it  was  her  husband 
who  asked,  "  For  what  ?  " 

"  To-day,  sir,  and  a  good  while  ago  when  I  was 
here — different  times — I  spoke  to  aunt  Serena  as 
1  ought  not;  rudely;  I  was  angry.  I  have  been 
wanting  to  say  so  and  to  beg  her  pardon." 

"  Well,  that's  all  anybody  can  do,"  said  Mr.  Bus- 
by. "  Enough's  said  about  that.  It's  very  proper, 
if  you  spoke  improperly,  to  confess  it  and  make  an 
apology;  that's  all  that  is  necessary.  At  least,  as 
soon  as  Mrs.  Busby  has  signified  that  she  accepts 
the  apology." 

But  Mrs.  Busby  signified  no  such  thing.  She 
kept  silence. 

"  My  dear,  do  you  want  Eotha  to  say  anything 
more?  Hasn't  she  apologized  sufficiently?" 

"  I  should  like  to  know  first,"  Mrs.  Busby  began 
in  constrained  tones,  "  what  motive  prompted  the 
apology  ?  " 

"Motive  ! — "  Mr.  Busby  began;  but  Kotha  struck 
in. 

"  My  motive  was,  that  I  wanted  to  do  right ;  and 
I  knew  it  was  right  that  I  should  apologize." 

"  Then  your  motive  was  not  that  you  were  sorry 
for  what  you  said  ? "  Mrs.  Busby  inquired  mag- 
isterially. 

Rotha  was  so  astonished  at  this  way  of  receiv- 
ing her  words  that  she  hesitated. 


422  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  I  am  sorry,  certainly,  that  I  should  have  spoken 
rudely,"  she  said. 

"  But  not  sorry  for  what  you  said  ?  " 

"You  are  splitting  hairs,  my  dear!"  said  Mr. 
Busby  impatiently. 

"  Let  her  answer — "  said  his  wife. 

"I  do  not  know  how  to  answer,"  said  Rotha 
slowly,  and  thinking  how  to  choose  her  words. 
"  I  am  sorry  for  my  ill-manners  and  unbecoming 
behaviour;  I  beg  pardon  for  that.  Is  there  any- 
thing else  to  ask  pardon  for?" 

"You  do  not  answer." 

"What  else  can  I  say?"  Rotha  returned  with 
some  spirit.  "  I  am  not  apologizing  for  thoughts 
or  feelings,  but  for  my  improper  behaviour.  Shall 
I  not  be  forgiven  ?  " 

"  Then  your  feeling  is  not  changed  ? "  said  the 
lady  with  a  sharp  look  at  her. 

Rotha  thought,  It  would  be  difficult  for  her  feel- 
ing to  change,  under  the  reigning  system.  She 
did  not  answer. 

"  Pish,  pish,  my  dear ! "  said  the  master  of  the 
house, — "you  are  splitting  straws.  When  an  apol- 
ogy is  made,  you  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  take 
it.  Rotha  has  done  her  part;  now  you  do  yours. 
Has  Santa  Glaus  come  your  way  this  year,  Rotha?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  What  did  he  bring  you,  hey  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Mowbray  gave  me  a  Bible." 

"  A  Bible !  "  Mrs.  Busby  and  her  daughter  both 
exclaimed  at  once;  "you  said  a  bag?" 


A  NEW  DEPARTURE.  423 

"  I  said  true,"  said  Rotha. 

"  She  gave  you  a  Bible  and  a  bag  too  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  What  utter  extravagance !  Had  you  no  Bible 
already  ?  " 

"I  had  one,  but  an  old  one  that  had  no  refer- 
ences." 

"  What  did  you  want  with  references !  That 
woman  is  mad.  If  she  gives  to  everybody  on  the 
same  scale,  her  pocket  will  be  empty  enough  when 
the  holidays  are  over." 

"But  she  gets  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  that 
way — "  Eotha  ventured. 

"  You  do,  you  mean." 

"  Well,  I  am  not  so  rich  as  Mrs.  Mowbray,"  Mr. 
Busby  said;  "but  I  must  remember  you,  Rotha." 
And  he  rose  and  went  to  a  large  secretary  which 
stood  in  the  room ;  for  that  basement  room  served 
Mr.  Busby  for  his  study  at  times  when  the  table 
was  not  laid  for  meals.  Three  pair  of  eyes  followed 
him  curiously.  Mr.  Busby  unlocked  his  secretary, 
opened  a  drawer,  and  took  out  thence  a  couple  of 
quires  of  letter  paper :  'sought  out  then  some  envel- 
opes of  the  right  size,  and  put  the  whole,  two 
quires  of  paper  and  two  packages  of  envelopes, 
into  Rotha's  astonished  hands. 

"  There,  my  dear,"  said  he,  "  that  will  be  of  use 
to  you." 

"  What  is  she  to  do  with  it,  papa  ?  "  Antoinette 
asked  in  an  amused  manner.  "  Rotha  has  nobody 
to  write  letters  to." 


424  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"That  may  be.  She  will  have  writing  to  do, 
however,  of  some  kind.  You  write  themes  in 
school,  don't  you  ?  " 

"But  then,  what  are  the  envelopes  for,  papa? 
We  don't  put  our  compositions  in  envelopes." 

"Never  mind,  my  dear;  the  envelopes  belong  to 
the  paper.  Rotha  can  keep  them  till  she  finds  a 
use  for  them." 

"  They  won't  match  other  paper,  papa,"  said  An- 
toinette. But  Rotha  collected  her  wits  and  made 
her  acknowledgments,  as  well  as  she  could. 

"  Has  Nettie  shewn  you  her  Christmas  things  ?  " 

"No,  sir." 

"Well,  it  will  please  you  to  see  them.  You  are 
welcome,  my  dear." 

Rotha  carried  her  package  of  paper  up  stairs, 
wondering  what  experiences  would  till  out  the  after- 
noon. Her  aunt  and  cousin  seemed  by  no  means  to 
be  in  a  genial  mood.  They  all  went  up  to  the  dress- 
ing room  and  sat  down  there  in  silence;  all,  that  is, 
except  Mr.  Busby.  Rotha's  thoughts  went  with  a 
spring  to  her  bag  and  her  books  at  Mrs.  Mowbray's. 
Two  o'clock,  said  the  clock  over  the  chimney  piece. 
In  three  hours  more  she  might  go  home. 

Mrs.  Busby  took  some  work;  she  always  had 
a  basket  of  mending  to  do.  Apologies  did  not 
seem  to  have  wrought  any  mollification  of  her 
temper.  Antoinette  went  down  to  the  parlour  to 
practise,  and  the  sweet  notes  of  the  piano  were 
presently  heard  rumbling  up  and  down.  Rotha 
sat  and  looked  at  her  aunt's  fingers. 


A  NEW  DEPARTURE.  425 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  mending  your 
clothes,  Rotha?"  Mrs.  Busby  at  last  broke  the 
silence. 

"  Not  much,  ma'am." 

"  Suppose  1  give  you  a  lesson.  See  here — here  is 
a  thin  place  on  the  shoulder  of  one  of  Mr.  Busby's 
shirts ;  there  must  go  a  patch  on  there.  Now  I  will 
give  you  a  patch — " 

She  sought  out  a  piece  of  linen,  cut  a  square 
from  it  with  great  attention  to  the  evenness  of  the 
cutting,  and  gave  it  to  Rotha. 

"  It  must  go  from  here  to  here — see  ?  "  she  said, 
shewing  the  place ;  "  and  you  must  lay  it  just  even 
with  the  threads;  it  must  be  exactly  even;  you 
must  baste  it  just  as  you  want  it;  and  then  fell  it 
down  very  neatly." 

Eotha  thought,  as  she  did  not  wear  linen  shirts, 
that  this  particular  piece  of  mending  was  rather  for 
her  aunt's  account  than  for  her  own.  Lay  it  by 
the  threads !  a  good  afternoon's  work. 

"  I  have  no  thimble, — "  was  all  she  said. 

Mrs.  Busby  sought  her  out  an  old  thimble  of  her 
own,  too  big  for  Rotha,  and  it  kept  slipping  off. 

The  rest  of  the  history  of  that  afternoon  is  the 
history  of  a  patch.  How  easy  it  is,  to  an  unskilled 
hand,  to  put  on  a  linen  patch  by  a  thread,  let  any- 
one who  doubts  convince  herself  by  trying.  Rotha 
basted  it  on,  and  took  it  off,  basted  it  on  again  and 
took  it  off  again;  it  would  not  lie  smooth,  or  it 
would  not  lie  straight;  and  when  she  thought 
it  would  do,  and  shewed  it  to  her  aunt,  Mrs. 


426  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Busby  would  point  out  that  what  straightness 
there  was  belonged  only  to  one  side,  or  that  there 
was  a  pucker  somewhere.  Rotha  sighed  and  be- 
gan again.  She  did  not  like  the  job.  Neither  had 
she  any  pleasure  in  doing  it  for  her  aunt.  Her 
impatience  was  as  difficult  to  straighten  out  as 
the  patch  itself,  but  Rotha  thought  it  was  only  the 
patch.  Finally,  and  it  was  not  long  first,  either, 
she  began  to  grow  angry.  Was  her  aunt  trying 
her,  she  questioned,  to  see  if  she  would  not  forget 
herself  and  be  ill-mannerly  again  ?  And  then  Ro- 
tha saw  that  the  cross  was  presented  to  her  anew, 
under  another  form.  Patience,  and  faithful  service, 
involving  again  the  giving  up  of  her  own  will. 
And  here  she  was,  getting  angry  already.  Rotha 
dropped  her  work  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands, 
to  send  up  one  silent  prayer  for  help. 

"You  won't  get  your  patch  done  that  way,"  said 
Mrs.  Busby's  cold  voice. 

Rotha  took  her  hands  down  and  said  nothing, 
resolved  that  here  too  she  would  do  what  it  was 
right  to  do.  She  gave  herself  to  the  work  with 
patient  determination,  and  arranged  the  patch  so 
fthat  even  Mrs.  Busby  said  it  was  well  enough. 
Then  she  received  a  needle  and  fine  thread  and 
was  instructed  how  to  sew  the  piece  on  with  very 
Bmall  stitches.  But  now  the  difficulty  was  over. 
Rotha  had  good  eyes  and  stitched  away  with  a 
good  will;  and  so  had  the  work  done,  just  before 
the  light  failed  too  much  for  her  to  see  any  longer. 
She  folded  up  the  shirt,  with  a  gleeful  feeling  that 


A  NEW  DEPARTURE.  427 

now  the  afternoon  was  over.  Antoinette  came  up 
from  her  practising,  or  whatever  else  she  had  been 
doing,  just  as  Eotha  rose. 

"Aunt  Serena,"  said  the  girl,  and  she  said  it 
pleasantly,  "my  stockings  some  of  them  want 
mending,  and  I  have  no  darning  cotton.  If  you 
would  give  me  a  skein  of  darning  cotton,  I  could 
keep  them  in  order." 

"Do  you  know  how?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  know  how  to  do  that.  Mother 
taught  me.  I  can  darn  stockings." 

Mrs.  Busby  rummaged  in  her  basket  and  handed 
to  Rotha  a  ball  of  cotton  yarn. 

"This  is  too  coarse,  aunt  Serena,"  Rotha  said 
after  examining  it. 

"  Too  coarse  for  what  ?  " 

"To  mend  my  stockings  with." 

"  It  is  not  too  coarse  to  mend  mine." 

"But  it  would  not  go  through  the  stitches  of 
mine,"  said  Rotha  looking  up.  "It  would  tear 
every  time." 

"  How  in  the  world  did  you  come  to  have  such 
ridiculous  stockings?  Such  stockings  are  expen- 
sive. I  do  not  indulge  myself  with  them;  and 
I  might,  better  than  your  mother." 

"Poor  people  always  think  they  must  have  things 
fine,  I  suppose,"  said  Antoinette.  "  I  wonder  what 
sort  of  shoes  she  has,  to  go  with  the  stockings  ?  " 

The  blood  flushed  to  Rotha's  face ;  and  irritation 
pricked  her  to  retort  sharply ;  yet  she  did  not  wish 
to  speak  Mr.  Digby's  name  again.  She  hesitated. 


428  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"Whose  nonsense  was  that?"  asked  Mrs.  Bus- 
by; "yours,  or  your  mother's?  I  never  heard  any- 
thing equal  to  it  in  my  life.  I  dare  say  they  are 
Balbriggans.  I  should  not  be  at  all  surprised  !  " 

"  I  do  not  know  what  they  are,"  said  Rotha, 
striving  to  hold  in  her  wrath,  "  but  they  are  not 
my  mother's  nonsense,  nor  mine." 

"  Whose  then  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Busby  sharply. 

Kotha  hesitated. 

"Mrs.  Mowbray's!"  cried  Antoinette.  "It  is 
Mrs.  Mowbray  again!  Mamma,  I  should  think 
you  would  feel  yourself  insulted.  Mrs.  Mowbray 
is  ridiculous !  As  if  you  could  not  get  proper 
stockings  for  Rotha,  but  she  must  put  her  hand 
in." 

"I  think  it  is  very  indelicate  of  Mrs.  Mowbray; 
and  Rotha  is  welcome  to  tell  her  I  say  so,"  Mrs. 
Busby  uttered  with  some  discomposure.  Rotha's 
discomposure  on  the  other  hand  cooled,  and  a 
sense  of  amusement  got  up.  It  is  funny,  to  see 
people  running  hard  after  the  wrong  quarry ;  when 
they  have  no  business  to  be  running  at  all.  How- 
ever, she  must  speak  now. 

"It  is  not  Mrs.  Mowbray's  nonsense  either,"  she 
said.  "  Mr.  Southwode  got  them  for  me." 

"  Mr.  Southwode  !  " — Mrs.  Busby  spoke  out  those 
two  words,  and  the  rest  of  her  mind  she  kept  to 
herself. 

"Mamma,"  said  Antoinette,  Mr.  Southwode  is 
as  great  a  goose  as  other  folks.  But  then,  gentle- 
men don't  know  things — how  should  they  ?  " 


A  NEW  DEPARTURE.  429 

"  You  are  a  goose  yourself,  Antoinette,"  said  her 
mother. 

"  Have  you  no  cotton  a  little  finer  ?  I  mean  a 
good  deal  finer  ?  "  said  Rotha,  going  back  to  the 
business  question. 

"There  are  no  stockings  in  my  house  to  need  it." 

"  Then  what  shall  I  do  ?  There  are  two  or  three 
little  holes  in  the  toes." 

"  I  will  tell  you.  I  will  get  you  some  stockings 
fit  for  you;  and  you  may  bring  those  to  me.  I 
will  take  care  of  them  till  you  want  them,  which 
will  not  be  for  a  long  time." 

Rotha  turned  cold  with  dismay.  This  was  usur- 
pation and  oppression  at  once;  against  both  which 
it  was  in  her  nature  to  rebel  furiously.  She  was 
fond  of  the  stockings,  as  of  everything  which  Mr. 
Southwode  had  got  for  her ;  moreover  they  suited 
her,  and  she  liked  the  delicate  comfort  of  them. 
And  though  nothing  less  than  suspicious,  Rotha 
had  a  sudden  feeling  that  the  time  for  her  to  see 
her  stockings  again  would  never  come ;  they  would 
be  put  to  other  use,  and  Mrs.  Busby  would  think  it 
was  a  fair  exchange.  She  would  wear  the  coarse 
and  Antoinette  would  have  the  fine.  There  was 
a  terrible  tempest  in  Rotha's  soul,  which  never- 
theless she  did  not  suffer  to  burst  out.  She  would 
appeal  to  Mrs.  Mowbray.  She  took  leave  some- 
what curtly,  carrying  her  two  quires  of  paper  with 
her,  but  leaving  the  coarse  darning  cotton  which 
she  did  not  intend  to  use. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

STOCKINGS. 

ROTHA  went  home  in  a  storm  of  feelings,  so  tu- 
multuous and  conflicting  that  her  eyes  were 
dropping  tears  all  the  way.  All  the  strength  there 
was  in  her  rose  against  this  new  injury ;  while  a 
feeling  of  powerlessness  made  her  tremble  lest  after 
all,  she  would  be  obliged  to  submit  to  it.  She 
writhed  under  the  bonds  of  circumstance.  Could 
Mrs.  Mowbray  protect  her  ?  and  if  not,  must  her 
fine  stockings  go,  to  be  worn  upon  her  cousin's 
feet,  or  her  aunt's?  The  up-rising  surges  of  Ko- 
tha's  rage  were  touched  and  coloured  by  just  one 
ray  of  light;  she  had  entered  a  new  service,  she 
had  therewith  got  a  new  Protector  and  Helper. 
That  thought  made  the  tears  come.  She  was  no 
longer  a  hopeless  slave  to  her  own  passions ;  there 
was  deliverance.  "  Jesus  is  my  King  now !  he  will 
take  care  of  me,  and  he  will  help  me  to  do  right." 
So  she  thought  as  she  ran  along.  For,  precisely 
what  Adam  and  Eve  lost  by  disobedience,  in  one 
respect,  their  descendants  regain  as  soon  as  they 
return  to  their  allegiance  and  become  obedient. 

The  riven  bond  is  united  again;  the  lost  protec- 
(430) 


STOCKINGS.  431 

tion  is  restored ;  they  have  come  "  from  the  power 
of  Satan,  to  God "  ;  and  under  his  banner  which 
now  floats  over  them,  the  motto  of  which  is  "Love," 
they  are  safe  from  all  the  wiles  and  the  force  of 
the  enemy.  Rotha  was  feeling  this  already;  al- 
ready rejoicing  in  the  new  peace  which  is  the  very 
air  of  the  kingdom  she  had  entered ;  glad  that  she 
was  no  longer  to  depend  on  herself,  to  fight  her 
battles  alone.  For  between  her  aunt  and  her  own 
heart,  the  battle  threatened  to  be  hot. 

It  was  dinner-time  when  she  got  home,  and  no 
time  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Mowbray.  And  Rotha  had 
to  watch  a  good  while  before  she  could  find  a 
chance  to  speak  to  her  in  private.  At  last  in  the 
course  of  the  evening  she  got  near  enough  to  say 
in  a  low  tone, 

"  Mrs.  Mowbray,  can  I  see  you  for  a  minute  by 
and  by?" 

"Is  it  business?"  the  lady  asked  in  the  same 
tone,  at  the  same  time  opening  a  Chinese  puzzle 
box  and  putting  it  before  another  of  her  pupil- 
guests. 

"  It  is  business  to  me,"  Rotha  answered. 

"  Troublesome  business  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  We  cannot  talk  it  over  here,  then.  I  will  come 
to  your  room  by  and  by." 

Which  indeed  she  did.  She  came  when  the  work 
of  the  day  was  behind  her;  and  what  a  day!  She 
had  entertained  some  of  her  girls  with  a  visit  to 
the  book-making  operations  of  the  American  Bible 


432  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Society;  she  had  taken  others  to  a  picture  gallery; 
she  had  packed  a  box  to  send  to  a  poor  friend  in 
the  country;  she  had  looked  over  a  bookseller's 
stock  to  see  what  he  had  that  could  be  of  service 
to  her  in  her  work ;  she  had  paid  two  visits  to  re- 
lations in  the  city;  she  had  kept  the  whole  group 
of  her  pupils  happily  entertained  all  the  evening 
with  pictures  and  puzzles;  and  now  she  came  to 
be  a  sympathizing,  patient,  helpful  friend  to  one 
little  tired  heart.  She  came  in  cheery  and  bright; 
looked  to  see  if  the  room  were  comfortable  and 
entirely  arranged  as  it  should  be,  and  then  took 
a  seat  and  an  air  of  expectant  readiness.  Was 
she  tired  ?  Perhaps — but  it  did  not  appear.  What 
if  she  were  tired  ?  if  here  was  more  work  that  God 
had  given  her  to  do.  She  did  not  shew  fatigue, 
in  look  or  manner.  She  might  have  just  risen 
after  a  night's  sleep. 

"  Are  you  comfortable  here,  my  dear  ?  " 

'  0  very,  ma'am,  thank  you." 

"  Now  what  is  the  business  you  want  to  speak 
about  ? " 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  I  ought  to  do !  " 

"  About  what?     Have  you  had  a  pleasant  day?  " 

"Not  at  all  pleasant." 

"How  happened  that?" 

"  It  was  partly  my  fault." 

"  Not  altogether  ?  "  Mrs.  Mowbray  asked  with  a 
smile  that  was  very  kindly. 

"  I  do  not  think  it  was  all  my  fault,  ma'am. 
Partly  it  was.  I  lost  my  temper,  and  got  angry, 


STOCKINGS.  433 

and  said  what  I  thought,  and  aunt  Serena  ban- 
ished me.  Then  at  luncheon  I  apologized  and 
asked  pardon ;  I  did  all  I  could.  But  that  wasn't 
the  trouble.  Aunt  Serena  told  me  to  bring  her 
all  my  nice  stockings,  and  she  would  get  me 
coarser  and  commoner  ones.  Must  I  do  it  ? " 
And  Rotha's  eyes  looked  up  anxiously  into  the 
lace  of  her  oracle. 

"  What  made  her  give  you  such  an  order  ?  " 

Rotha  hesitated,  and  said  at  last  she  did  not 
know. 

44  Are  your  stockings  too  fine  for  proper  protec- 
tion to  your  feet  in  cold  weather  ?  " 

"  0,  no,  ma'am !  nothing  was  said  about  that 
at  all ;  only  I  am  a  poor  girl,  and  have  no  business 
to  have  fine  stockings." 

"  How  came  you  to  have  them  so  fine  ?  " 

"They  were  given  to  me.  They  were  got  for 
me ;  by  a  friend  who  was  not  poor.  Are  they  not 
mine  now?" 

"  And  you  say  your  aunt  wants  them  ?  " 

"Says  I  must  bring  them  to  her,  and  she  will 
get  me  some  more  fit  for  me." 

"  What  does  she  want  with  them  ?  "  cried  Mrs. 
Mowbray  sharply. 

"  She  says  sJie  has  none  so  fine,  and  she  will  keep 
them  till  I  want  them ;  but  when  would  that  be  ?  " 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  1  said  nothing.  I  was  too  terribly  angry.  I 
got  out  of  the  house  without  saying  anything.  It 
all  came  from  asking  her  for  some  darning  cotton 


434  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

to  mend  them;  and  what  she  gave  me  was  too 
coarse." 

"  I  have  got  fine  darning  cotton,"  said  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray.  "  I  will  give  you  some." 

"Then  you  do  not  think  I  need  let  her  have 
them  ?  Dear  Mrs.  Mowbray,  has  she  any  right  to 
take  my  things  from  me  ?  " 

"  I  should  say  not,"  Mrs.  Mowbray  answered. 

"Then  you  think  I  may  refuse  when  she  asks 
me  for  them  ?  "  said  Kotha,  joyfully. 

*'  What  is  your  rule  of  action,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  My  rule  ?  "  said  Rotha,  growing  grave  again.  "  I 
think,  Mrs.  Mowbray,  I  want  to  do  what  is  right." 

"  There  is  a  further  question.  Do  you  want  to 
do  what  I  think  right,  or  what  you  think  right,  or 
— what  God  thinks  right  ?  " 

" I  want  to  do  that"  said  Rotha,  with  her  heart 
beating  very  disagreeably.  "I  want  to  do  what 
God  thinks  right." 

"  Then  I  advise  you,  my  dear,  to  ask  him." 

"  Ask  him  what,  madame  ?  " 

"  Ask  what  you  ought  to  do  in  the  circumstances. 
I  confess  I  am  not  ready  with  the  answer.  My  first 
feeling  is  with  you,  that  your  aunt  has  no  right  to 
take  such  a  step ;  but,  my  dear,  it  is  sometimes  our 
duty  to  suffer  wrong.  And  you  are  under  her  care ; 
she  is  the  nearest  relative  you  have;  you  must 
consider  what  is  due  to  her  in  that  connection.  She 
stands  to  you  in  the  place  of  your  parents — " 

"0  no,  ma'am!"  Rotha  exclaimed.  "Never! 
Not  the  least  bit." 


STOCKINGS.  435 

"Not  as  entitled  to  affection,  but  as  having  a 
right  to  respect  and  observance.  You  cannot  change 
that  fact,  my  dear.  Whether  you  love  her  or  not, 
you  owe  her  observance;  and  within  certain  limits, 
obedience.  She  stands  in  that  place  with  regard 
to  you." 

"But  my  own  mother  gave  me  to  Mr.  South- 
wode." 

"He  could  not  take  care  of  you  properly;  as  he 
shewed  that  he  was  aware  when  he  placed  you 
under  the  protection  of  your  aunt." 

"  She  will  never  protect  me,"  said  Eotha.  "  She 
will  do  the  other  thing." 

"Well,  my  dear,  that  does  not  change  the  cir- 
cumstances," said  Mrs.  Mowbray  rising. 

"Then  you  think" — said  Kotha  in  great  dismay 
— "you  think  I  ought  to  pray,  to  know  what  I 
ought  to  do  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  know  no  better  way.  If  you  desire  to 
do  the  will  of  the  Lord,  and  not  your  own." 

"But  how  shall  I  get  the  answer?" 

"  Look  in  the  Bible  for  it.  .  You  will  get  it.  And 
now,  good  night,  my  dear  child !  Don't  sit  up  to- 
night to  think  about  it;  it  is  late.  Start  fresh  to- 
morrow. You  have  a  good  time  for  that  sort  of 
study,  now  in  the  holidays." 

She  gave  a  kind  embrace  to  Eotha;  and  the  girl 
went  to  bed  soothed  and  comforted.  True,  her  blood 
boiled  when  she  thought  of  her  stockings ;  but  she 
tried  not  to  think  of  them,  and  soon  was  beyond 
thinking  of  anything. 


436  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

The  next  day  was  filled  with  a  white  snow  storm ; 
with  flurries  of  wind  and  thick,  driving  atoms  of 
frost,  that  chased  everybody  out  of  the  streets  who 
was  brought  thither  by  anything  short  of  stern 
business.  A  lovely  day  to  make  the  house  and 
one's  own  room  seem  cosy  and  cheery.  It  was 
positive  delight  to  hear  the  sharp  crystals  beat  on 
the  window  panes  and  to  see  the  swirling  eddies 
and  gusts  of  them  as  the  wind  carried  them  by, 
almost  in  mass.  It  made  quiet  and  warmth  and 
comfort  feel  so  much  the  more  delicious.  Rotha 
had  retreated  to  her  room  after  breakfast  and  be- 
taken herself  to  her  appointed  work 

Her  Bible  had  a  new  look  to  her.  It  was  now 
not  simply  a  book  Mrs.  Mowbray  had  given  her; 
that  was  half  lost  in  the  feeling  that  it  was  a  book 
God  had  given  her.  As  such,  something  veiy  dear 
and  reverent,  precious  and  wonderful,  and  most 
sweet.  Not  any  longer  an  awesome  book  of  ad- 
verse law,  with  which  she  was  at  cross  purposes; 
but  a  letter  of  love,  containing  the  mind  and  will 
of  One  whom  it  was. her  utter  pleasure  to  obey. 
The  change  was  so  great,  Rotha  lingered  a  little, 
in  admiring  contemplation  of  it;  and  then  betook 
herself  to  the  business  in  hand.  How  should  she 
do  ?  She  thought  the  best  way  would  be  to  ask 
earnestly  for  light  on  her  duty;  then  to  open  the 
Bible  and  see  what  she  could  find.  She  prayed  her 
prayer,  honestly  and  earnestly,  but  she  hoped,  quite 
as  earnestly,  that  it  would  not  be  her  duty  to  let 
her  aunt  have  her  fine  stockings. 


STOCKINGS.  437 

And  here  lies  the  one  great  difficulty  in  the 
way  of  finding  what  the  Bible  really  says  on  any 
given  subject  which  concerns  our  action.  Looking 
through  a  red  veil,  you  do  not  get  the  right  colour 
of  blue ;  and  looking  through  blue,  you  will  easily 
turn  gold  into  green.  Or,  to  change  the  figure ;  if 
your  ears  are  filled  with  the  din  of  passion  or  the 
clamour  of  desire,  the  soft,  fine  voice  of  the  Spirit 
in  the  word  or  in  the  heart  is  easily  drowned  and 
lost.  So  says  Fenelon,  and  right  justly — "  0  how 
rare  a  thing  is  it,  to  find  a  soul  still  enough  to 
hear  God  speak !  " 

The  other  supposed  difficulty,  that  the  Bible  does 
not  speak  directly  of  the  subject  about  which  you 
are  inquiring,  does  not  hold  good.  It  may  be  true; 
nevertheless,  as  one  or  two  notes,  clearly  heard, 
will  give  you  the  whole  chord,  even  so  it  is  with 
this  heavenly  music  of  the  Lord's  will.  Eotha  did 
not  in  the  least  know  where  to  look  for  the  de- 
cision she  wanted;  she  thought  the  best  thing 
therefore  would  be  to  go  on  with  that  same  chapter 
of  Matthew  from  which  she  had  already  got  so 
much  light.  She  had  done  what  in  her  lay  to  be 
"reconciled  to  her  brother,"  alias  her  aunt;  she 
was  all  ready  to  go  further.  Would  the  next  say- 
ing be  as  hard  ? 

She  read  on,  for  a  number  of  verses,  without 
coming  to  anything  that  touched  her  present  pur- 
pose. Then  suddenly  she  started.  What  was  this  ? 

"  Ye  have  heard  that  it  hath  been  said,  An  eye 
for  an  eye,  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth :  but  I  say  unto 


438  '  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

you,  That  ye  resist  not  evil:  but  whosoever  shall 
smite  thee  on  the  one  cheek,  turn  to  him  the  other 
also.  And  if  any  man  will  sue  thee  at  the  law  and 
take  away  thy  coat,  let  him  have  thy  cloak  also. 
And  whosoever  shall  compel  thee  to  go  a  mile,  go 
with  him  twain." — 

Rotha  stared  at  the  words  first,  as  if  they  had 
risen  out  of  the  ground  to  confront  her;  and  then 
put  both  hands  to  her  face.  For  there  was  conflict 
again ;  her  whole  soul  in  a  tumult  of  resistance  and 
rebellion.  Let  her  aunt  do  her  this  wrong !  But 
there  it  stood  written — "  That  ye  resist  not  evil." 
0  why,  thought  Rotha,  why  may  not  evil  be  re- 
sisted ?  And  people  do  resist  it,  and  go  to  law,  and 
do  everything  they  can,  to  prevent  being  trampled 
upon  ?  Must  one  let  oneself  be  trampled  upon  ? 
Why  ?  Justice  should  be  done ;  and  this  is  not 
justice.  0  I  wish  Mrs.  Mowbray  would  come 
in,  that  I  might  ask  her!  I  do  not  understand  it." 

At  the  moment,  as  if  summoned  by  her  wish, 
Mrs.  Mowbray  tapped  at  the  door;  she  wanted  to 
get  something  out  of  a  closet  in  that  room,  and 
apologized  for  disturbing  Rotha. 

"  You  are  not  disturbing — O  Mrs.  Mowbray,  are 
you  very  busy  ?  "  cried  the  girl. 

"Always  busy,  my  dear,"  said  the  lady  pleasantly. 
"  I  am  always  busy.  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Nothing — if  you  are  too  busy,"  said  Rotha. 

"  I  am  never  too  busy  when  you  want  my  help. 
Do  you  want  help  now  ?  " 

"0  very  much!     I  cannot  understand  things." 


STOCKINGS.  439 

"  Well,  wait  a  moment,  and  I  will  come  to  you." 

Rotha  straightened  herself  up,  taking  hope ;  set 
a  chair  for  Mrs^  Mowbray,  and  received  her  with  a 
face  already  lightened  of  part  of  its  shadow  of  care. 

"It  is  this,  Mrs.  Mowbray.  I  was  looking,  as 
you  told  me,  to  see  what  I  ought  to  do;  and  look 
here, — I  came  to  this: — 'That  ye  resist  not  evil.' 
Why  ?  Is  it  not  right  to  resist  evil  ?  " 

"  Read  the  passage ;  read  the  whole  passage,  to 
the  end  of  the  chapter." 

Rotha  read  it ;  the  verses  she  had  been  studying, 
and  then,  "  Ye  have  heard  that  it  hath  been  said, 
Thou  shalt  love  thy  neighbour  and  hate  thine 
enemy:  but  I  say  unto  you,  Love  your  enemies, 
bless  them  that  curse  you,  do  good  to  them  that 
hate  you,  and  pray  for  them  which  despitefully  use 
you,  and  persecute  you;  that  ye  may  be  the  chil- 
dren of  your  Father  which  is  in  heaven:" — Rotha 
read  on  to  the  end  of  the  chapter. 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray  then,  "do  you 
think  you  could  love  your  enemies  and  pray  for 
them,  if  you  were  busy  fighting  and  resisting 
them?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Rotha.  "  Perhaps  not.  I 
do  not  think  it  would  be  easy  any  way." 

"  It  is  not  easy.  Do  you  not  see  that  it  would 
be  simply  impossible  to  do  the  two  things  at  once? 
You  must  take  the  one  course  or  the  other ;  either 
do  your  best  to  repel  force  with  force,  resist, 
struggle,  go  to  law,  give  people  what  they  de- 
serve; or,  you  must  go  with  your  hands  full  of 


440  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

forgiveness  and  your  heart  full  of  kindness,  pass- 
ing by  offence  and  even  suffering  wrong,  if- per- 
haps you  may  conquer  evil  with  good,  and  win 
people  with  love,  and  so  save  them  from  great 
loss.  It  is  worth  bearing  a  little  loss  oneself  to 
do  that" 

"But  is  it  rigid  to  let  people  do  wrong  things 
and  not  stop  them  ?  Isn't  it  right  to  go  to 
law?" 

"  Sometimes,  where  the  interests  of  others  are  at 
stake.  But  if  it  is  only  a  little  discomfort  for  you 
or  me  at  the  moment,  I  think  the  Bible  says,  For- 
give,— let  it  pass, — and  love  and  pray  the  people 
into  better  behaviour,  if  you  can." 

"  I  never  can,  aunt  Serena,"  said  Rotha  low. 

"My  dear,  you  cannot  tell." 

"  Then  I  ought  to  let  her-  have  my  stockings  ?  " 
Rotha  said  again  after  a  pause. 

"That  is  a  question  for  you  to  judge  of.  But 
can  you  forgive  and  love  her,  and  resist  her  at  the 
same  time  ?  You  could,  if  what  she  asks  demanded 
a  wrong  action  from  you;  but  it  is  only  a  disa- 
greeable one." 

"  Is  it  only  because  it  is  so  disagreeable,  that  it 
seems  to  me  so  wrong  ?  " 

"I  think  it  is  wrong  in  your  aunt;  but  that  is 
not  the  question  we  have  to  deal  with." 

"  And  if  one  man  strikes  another  man — do  you 
think  he  ought  to  give  him  a  chance  to  strike 
him  again?" 

"What  do  the  words  say?" 


STOCKINGS.  441 

Rotha  looked  at  the  words,  as  if  they  ought  to 
mean  something  different  from  what  they  8aid. 

"I  will  tell  you  a  true  story,"  Mrs.  Mowbray 
went  on.  " Something  that  really  once  happened; 
and  then  you  can  judge.  It  was  in  a  large  man- 
ufacturing establishment,  somewhere  out  West. 
The  master  of  the  establishment — I  think  he  was 
an  Englishman — had  occasion  to  reprove  one  of 
his  underlings  for  something;  I  don't  know  what; 
but  the  man  got  into  a  great  rage  and  struck  him 
a  blow  flat  in  the  face.  The  master  turned  red, 
and  turned  pale;  stood  still  a  moment,  and  then 
offered  the  man  the  other  side  of  his  face  for  an- 
other blow.  The  man's  fist  was  already  clenched 
to  strike, — but  at  seeing  that,  he  wavered,  his  arm 
fell  down,  and  he  burst  into  tears.  He  was  con- 
quered.  

"What  do  you  think?" 

"  He  was  a  very  extraordinary  man ! "  said 
Rotha. 

"  Which  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Mowbray  smiling. 

"01  mean  the  master." 

"  But  what  do  you  think  of  that  plan  of  dealing 
with  an  injury  ?  " 

"  But  does  the  Bible  really  mean  that  we  should 
do  so?" 

"What  does  it  say,  my  dear?  It  is  always 
quite  safe  to  conclude  that  God  means  what  he 
says." 

"  People  don't  act  as  if  they  thought  so." 

"  What  then  ?  " 


442  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

" Mrs.  Mowbray,  I  don't  see  how  a  man  covld" 

"  By  the  grace  of  God." 

"  I  suppose,  by  that  one  could  do  anything,"  said 
Kotha  thoughtfully. 

Silence  fell,  which  Mrs.  Mowbray  would  not 
break.  She  watched  the  girl's  face,  which  shewed 
thoughts  working  and  some  struggle  going  on. 
The  struggle  was  so  absorbing,  that  Rotha  did  not 
notice  the  silence,  nor  know  how  long  it  lasted. 

"Then — you  think — "  she  began, — "according  to 
that— I  ought—" 

The  words  came  slowly  and  with  some  inner 
protest.  Mrs.  Mowbray  rose. 

"It  is  no  matter  what  I  think.  The  decision  must 
be  made  by  yourself  independently.  Study  it,  and 
pray  over  it;  and  I  pray  you  may  decide  rightly." 

"But  if  you  thought,  Mrs.  Mowbray — "  Kotha 
began. 

"  It  is  not  I  whom  you  have  to  obey,  my  child. 
I  think  your  case  is  not  an  easy  one ;  it  would  not 
be  for  me ;  I  believe  it  would  rouse  all  the  wicked- 
ness there  is  in  me ;  but,  as  you  said,  by  the  grace 
of  God  one  can  do  anything.  I  shall  pray  for  you, 
my  dear." 

She  left  the  room,  though  Eotha  would  fain 
have  detained  her.  It  was  much  easier  to  talk 
than  to  act;  and  now  she  was  thrown  back  upon 
the  necessity  for  action.  She  sat  leaning  over  the 
Bible,  looking  at  the  words;  uncompromising,  sim- 
ple, clear  words,  but  so  hard,  so  hard,  to  obey ! 
"If  he  compel  thee  to  go  a  mile,  go  with  him 


STOCKINGS.  443 

twain."  And  then  Rotha's  will  took  such  a  hold 
of  her  stockings,  that  it  seemed  as  if  she  never 
could  let  them  go.  It  was  injustice!  it  was  op- 
pression !  it  was  extortion !  it  was  more,  something 
else  that  Botha  could  not  define.  Yes,  true,  but — 
"if  he  take  away  thy  coat,  let  him  have  thy  cloak 
also." 

A  long  while  Rotha  worried  over  those  words ; 
and  then  stole  into  her  mind  another  thought, 
coming  with  the  subtlety  and  the  peace  of  a  sun- 
beam.— It  is  not  for  aunt  Serena ;  it  is  for  Christ ; 
you  are  his  servant,  and  these  are  his  commands. — 
It  is  true !  thought  Rotha,  with  a  sudden  casting 
off  of  the  burden  that  was  upon  her;  I  am  his  ser- 
vant ;  and  since  this  is  his  pleasure,  why,  it  is  mine. 
Aunt  Serena  may  have  the  things;  what  does  it 
signify?  but  I  have  a  chance  to  please  God  in 
giving  them  up;  and  here  I  have  been  trying  as 
hard  as  I  could  to  fight  off  from  doing  it.  A 
pretty  sort  of^a  Christian  I  am  !  But — and  O  what 
a  joy  came  with  the  consciousness — I  think  the 
Lord  is  beginning  to  take  away  my  stony  heart. 

The  feeling  of  being  indeed  a  servant  of  the 
Lord  Christ  seemed  to  transform  things  to  Rotha's 
vision.  And  among  other  things,  the  words  of  the 
Bible,  which  were  suddenly  become  very  bright 
and  very  sweet  to  her.  The  question  in  hand  be- 
ing settled,  and  no  fear  of  the  words  any  longer 
possessing  her,  it  occurred  to  her  to  take  her 
"  Treasury  of  Scripture  Knowledge  "  and  see  what 
more  there  might  be  about  this  point  of  not  re- 


444  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

sisting  evil.  She  found  first  a  -word  back  in 
Leviticus 

"Thou  shalt  not  avenge,  nor  bear  any  grudge 
against  the  children  of  thy  people,  but  thou  shalt 
love  thy  neighbour  as  thyself." — Lev.  xix.  18. 

It  struck  Eotha's  conscience.  This  went  even 
further  than  turning  the  cheek  and  resigning  the 
cloak;  (or  she  thought  so)  for  it  forbade  her 
withal  to  harbour  any  grudge  against  the  wrong 
doer.  Not  have  a  grudge  against  her  aunt,  after 
giving  up  the  stockings  to  her  ?  Yet  Rotha  saw 
and  acknowledged  presently  that  only  so  could 
the  action  be  thoroughly  sound  and  true;  only  so 
could  there  be  no  danger  of  nullifying  it  by  some 
sudden  subsequent  action.  But  bear  no  grudge? 
Well,  by  the  grace  of  God,  perhaps.  Yes,  that 
could  do  everything. 

She  went  on,  meanwhile,  and  read  some  passages 
of  David's  life ;  telling  how  he  refused  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  opportunities  to  avenge  himself  upon 
Saul,  who  was  seeking  his  life  at  the  time.  The 
sweet,  noble,  humble  temper  of  the  young  soldier 
and  captain,  appeared  very  manifest  and  very 
beautiful;  at  the  same  time,  Eotha  thought  she 
could  easier  have  forgiven  Saul,  in  David's  place, 
than  in  her  own  she  could  forgive  Mrs.  Busby. 
Some  other  words  about  not  avenging  oneself  she 
passed  over ;  that  was  not  the  point  with  her ;  and 
then  she  came  to  a  word  in  Komans, 

"If  it  be  possible,  as  much  as  lieth  in  you,  live 
peaceably  with  all  men." 


STOCKINGS.  445 

That  confirmed  her  decision,  and  loudly.  If  she 
would  live  peaceably  with  Mrs.  Busby,  no  doubt 
she  must  do  her  will  in  the  matter  of  the  stock- 
ings. But  "with  all  men,"  and  "as  much  as  lieth 
in  you";  those  were  weighty  words,  well  to  be 
pondered  and  laid  to  heart.  Evidently  the  Lord 
would  have  his  servants  to  be  quiet  people  and 
kindly;  not  so  much  bent  on  having  their  own 
rights,  as  careful  to  put  no  hindrance  in  the  way 
of  their  good  influence  and  example.  And  I  am 
one  of  his  people,  thought  Rotha  joyously.  I  will 
try  all  I  can.  And  it  is  very  plain  that  I  must  not 
bear .  a  grudge  in  my  heart ;  for  if  it  was  there,  I 
could  never  keep  it  from  coming  out. 

Then  she  read  a  verse  in  1  Corinthians  vi.  7. 
"  Now  therefore  there  is  utterly  a  fault  among  you, 
because  ye  go  to  law  one  with  another.  Why  do 
ye  not  rather  take  wrong?  why  do  ye  not  rather 
suffer  yourselves  to  be  defrauded  ? "  It  did  not 
stumble  her  now.  Looking  upon  all  these  regula- 
tions as  opportunities  to  make  patent  her  service 
of  Christ  and  to  please  him,  they  won  quite  a  pleas- 
ant aspect.  The  words  of  the  hymn,  so  paradox- 
ical till  one  comes  to  work  them  out,  were  already 
verified  in  her  experience — 

"He  always  wins  who  sides  with  God; 

To  him  no  chance  is  lost. 
God's  will  is  sweetest  to  him  when 
It  triumphs  at  his  cost." 

Ay,  for  then  he  tastes  the  doing  of  it,  pure, 


446  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

and  unmixed  with  the  sweetness  of  doing  his 
own  will. 

And  then  came, — "Not  rendering  evil  for  evil, 
or  railing  for  railing;  but  contrariwise  blessing; 
knowing  that  ye  are  thereunto  called,  that  ye 
should  inherit  a  blessing." — 1  Peter  iii.  9. 

"  Contrariwise,  blessing."  According  to  that,  she 
must  seek  out  some  way  of  helping  or  pleasing  her 
aunt,  as  a  return  for  her  behaviour  about  the  stock- 
ings. And  strangely  enough,  there  began  to  come 
into  her  heart,  for  the  first  time,  a  feeling  of  pity 
for  Mrs.  Busby.  Rotha  did  not  believe  she  was 
near  as  happy,  with  all  her  money,  as  her  little 
penniless  self  with  her  Bible.  No,  nor  half  as  rich. 
What  could  she  do,  to  shew  good  will  towards  her? 

There  was  nobody  at  the  dinner  table  that  even- 
ing, who  looked  happier  than  Rotha;  there  was 
nobody  who  enjoyed  eveiything  so  well.  For  I  am 
the  servant  of  Christ — she  said  to  herself.  A  little 
while  later,  in  the  library,  whither  they  all  re- 
paired, she  was  again  lost  in  the  architecture  of  the 
13th  and  14th  centuries,  and  in  studying  Fergusson. 
She  started  when  Mrs.  Mowbray  spoke  to  her. 

"How  did  you  determine  your  question,  my 
dear?" 

Rotha  lifted  her  head,  threw  back  the  dark 
masses  of  her  hair,  and  cleared  the  arches  of 
Rivaulx  out  of  her  eyes. 

"  0, — I  am  going  to  let  her  have  them,"  she 
said. 

"  What  she  demanded  ?  " 


_    STOCKINGS.  447 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  How  did  you  come  to  that  conclusion  ?  " 

"  The  words  seemed  plain,  madame,  when  I  came 
to  look  at  them.  That  about  letting  the  cloak  go, 
you  know;  and,  'If  it  be  possible,  ...  live  peace- 
ably with  all  men.'  If  I  was  going  to  live  peace- 
ably, I  knew  I  must." 

"And  you  are  inclined  now  to  live  peaceably 
with  the  person  in  question  ?  " 

"  0  yes,  ma'am,"  said  Kotha.  She  smiled  frankly 
in  Mrs.  Mowbray's  face  as  she  said  it;  and  she  was 
puzzled  to  know  what  made  that  lady's  eyes 
swiftly  fill  with  tears.  They  filled  full.  Eotha 
went  back  to  her  stereoscope. 

"  What  have  you  there,  my  dear  ?  " 

"0  this  old  abbey,  Mrs.  Mowbray;  it  is  just  a 
ruin,  but  it  is  so  beautiful !  Will  you  look  ?  " 

Mrs.  Mowbray  put  the  glass  to  her  eye. 

"  It  is  a  severe  style — "  she  remarked. 

"Is  it?" 

"  And  it  wras  built  at  a  severe  time  of  religious 
strictness  in  the  order  to  which  it  belonged.  They 
were  a  colony  from  Clairvaux;  and  the  prior  of 
Clairvaux,  Bernard,  was  the  most  remarkable  man 
of  his  time;  remarkable  through  his  goodness. 
In  all  Europe  there  was  not  another  man,  crowned 
or  uncrowned,  who  had  the  social  and  political 
power  of  that  man.  Yet  he  was  a  simple  monk, 
and  devoted  to  God's  service." 

"  I  do  not  know  much  about  monks,"  Eotha 
remarked. 


448  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  You  can  know  a  good  deal  about  them,  if  you 
will  read  that  work  of  Montalembert  on  the  monks 
of  the  Middle  Ages.  Make  haste  and  learn  to 
read  French.  You  must  know  that  first." 

"Is  it  in  French?" 

"Yes." 

Rotha  thought  as  she  laid  down  Eivaulx  and 
took  up  Tintern  abbey,  that  there  was  a  good  deal 
to  learn.  Pier  next  word  was  an  exclamation. 

"  O  how  beautiful,  how  beautiful !  It  is  just  a 
door,  Mrs.  Mowbray,  belonging  to  Tintem  abbey, 
a  door  and  some  ivy;  but  it  is  so  pretty!  How 
came  so  many  of  these  beautiful  abbeys  and  things 
to  be  in  ruins  ?  " 

"  Henry  the  Eighth  had  the  monks  driven  out 
and  the  roofs  stripped  off.  When  you  take  the 
roof  off  a  building,  the  weather  gets  in,  and  it  goes 
to  ruin  very  fast." 

Henry  the  Eighth  was  little  more  than  a  name 
yet  to  Rotha.  "What  did  he  do  that  for?"  she 
asked. 

"  I  believe  he  wanted  to  turn  the  metal  sheath- 
ing of  the  roofs  into  money.  And  he  wanted  to 
put  down  the  monastic  orders." 

"Mrs.  Mowbray,  this  abbey  was  pretty  old  be- 
fore it  was  made  a  ruin." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"Because,  I  see  it.  Only  half  of  the  door  was 
accustomed  to  be  opened;  and  the  stone  before  the 
door  on  that  side  is  ever  so  much  worn  away.  So 
many  feet  had  gone  in  and  out  there." 


STOCKINGS.  449 

Mrs.  Mowbray  took  the  glass  to  look.  "  I  never 
noticed  that  before,"  she  said. 

So  went  the  days  of  the  vacation,  pleasantly  and 
sweetly  after  that.  Eotha  enjoyed  herself  hugely. 
She  had  free  access  to  the  library,  which  was  rich 
in  engravings  and  illustrations,  and  in  best  works 
of  reference  upon  every  subject  that  she  could  wish 
to  look  into.  Sometimes  she  went  driving  with 
Mrs.  Mowbray.  Morning,  evening,  and  day  were 
all  pleasant  to  her ;  the  leisure  was  busily  filled  up, 
and  the  time  fruitful.  With  the  other  young  ladies 
remaining  in  the  house  for  the  holidays,  she  had 
little  to  do ;  little  beyond  what  courtesy  demanded. 
Their  pleasures  and  pursuits  were  so  diverse  from 
her  own  that  there  could  be  little  fellowship.  One 
was  much  taken  up  with  shopping  and  visits  to 
her  mantua-maker;  several  were  engrossed  with 
fancy  work ;  some  went  out  a  great  deal ;  all  had 
an  air  of  dawdling.  They  fell  away  from  Eotha, 
quite  naturally;  all  the  more  that  she  was  getting 
the  name  of  being  a  favourite  of  Mrs.  Mowbray's. 
But  Kotha  as  naturally  fell  away  from  them.  None 
of  them  cared  for  the  stereoscope,  or  shared  in  the 
least  her  pleasure  in  the  lines  and  mouldings  and 
proportions  of  glorious  architecture.  Arid  Kotha 
herself  could  not  have  talked  of  lines  or  mouldings; 
she  only  knew  that  she  found  delight;  she  did  not 
know  why. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

EDUCATION. 

"  1\  /TY  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray,  the  last  day  of 

1V1  December,  "would  you  like  to  have  the 
little  end  room  ?  " 

Rotha  looked  up.     "  Where  Miss  Jewett  sleeps  ?  " 

"That  room.  I  am  going  to  place  Miss  Jewett 
differently.  Would  you  like  to  have  it?  " 

"For  myself?" — Rotha's  eyes  brightened. 

"  It  is  only  big  enough  for  one.  You  may  have 
it,  if  you  like.  And  move  your  things  into  it  to- 
day, my  dear.  The  young  ladies  who  live  in  this 
room  will  be  coming  back  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

With  indescribable  joy  Rotha  obeyed  this  com- 
mand. The  room  in  question  was  one  cut  off  from 
the  end  of  a  narrow  hall;  very  small  accordingly; 
there  was  just  space  for  a  narrow  bed,  a  wardrobe 
f&  little  washstand,  a  small  dressing  table  with 
drawers,  and  one  chair.  But  it  was  privacy  and 
leisure;  and  Rotha  moved  her  clothes  and  books 
and  took  possession  that  very  day.  Mrs.  Mowbray 
looked  in,  just  as  she  had  finished  her  arrangements. 

"  Are  you  going  to  be  comfortable  here  ?  "  she 
said.     "  My  dear,  I  thought,  in  that  other  room  you 
would  have  no  chance  to  study  your  Bible." 
(450) 


EDUCATION.  451 

"Thank  you,  dear  Mrs.  Mowbray!  I  am  so 
delighted." 

"There  is  a  rule  in  Miss  Manners'  school  at 
Meriden,  that  at  the  ringing  of  a  bell,  morning  and 
evening,  each  young  lady  should  go  to  her  room 
to  be  alone  with  her  Bible  for  twenty  minutes.  The 
house  is  so  arranged  that  every  one  can  be  alone 
at  that  time.  It  is  a  good  rule.  I  wish  I  could 
establish  it  here ;  but  it  would  do  more  harm  than 
it  would  good  in  my  family.  My  dear,  your  aunt 
has  sent  word  that  she  wishes  to  see  you." 

Rotha' s  colour  suddenly  started.  "I  suppose 
I  know  what  that  means !  "  she  said. 

"The  stockings?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"01  am  going  to  take  them." 

"  And,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray,  kissing  Ro- 
tha,  "  pray  for  grace  to  do  it  pleasantly" 

Yes,  that  was  something  needed,  Rotha  felt  as 
she  went  through  the  streets.  Her  heart  was  a 
little  bitter. 

She  found  her  aunt's  house  in  a  state  of  prepa- 
ration ;  covers  off  the  drawing-room  furniture,  greens 
disposed  about  the  walls,  servants  busy.  Mrs.  Bus- 
by was  in  her  dressing-room ;  and  there  too,  on  the 
sofa,  in  mere  wantonness  of  idleness,  for  she  was 
not  sick,  lay  Antoinette ;  a  somewhat  striking  figure, 
in  a  dress  of  white  silk,  and  looking  very  pretty 
indeed.  Also  looking  as  if  she  knew  it. 

"  Good  morning,  Rotha  1 "  she  cried.     "  This  is 


THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

the  dress  I  am  to  wear  to-morrow.  I'm  trying 
it  on." 

"She's  very  ridiculous,"  Mrs.  Busby  remarked, 
in  a  smiling  tone  of  complacency. 

"What  is  to  be  to-morrow?"  Kotha  inquired 
pleasantly.  The  question  brought  Antoinette  up 
to  a  sitting  posture. 

"  Why  don't  you  know  ?  "  she  said.  "  Dorit  you 
know  ?  Mamma,  is  it  possible  anybody  of  Rotha's 
size  shouldn't  know  what  day  New  Year's  is  ?  " 

"New  Year's !  O  yes,  I  remember;  people  make 
visits,  don't  they  ?  " 

"  Gentlemen ;  and  ladies  receive  visits.  It  is  the 
greatest  day  of  all  the  year,  if  you  have  visitors 
enough.  And  I  eat  supper  all  day  long.  We  have 
a  supper  table  set,  and  hot  oysters,  and  ice  cream, 
and  coffee,  and  cake;  and  I  never  want  any  dinner 
when  it  comes." 

"  That  is  a  very  foolish  way,"  said  her  mother. 
"  Did  you  bring  the  stockings,  Kotha  ?  " 

Silently,  she  could  not  say  anything  "pleas- 
antly "  at  the  moment,  Eotha  delivered  her  pack- 
age of  stockings  neatly  put  up.  Mrs.  Busby 
opened  and  examined,  Antoinette  running  up  to 
look  too. 

"  Mamma !  how  ridiculously  nice ! "  she  exclaimed. 
"  You  never  gave  me  any  as  good  as  those." 

"  No,  I  should  hope  not,"  said  her  mother.  "  Here 
are  eleven  pair,  Rotha." 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Were  there  not  twelve  ?  " 


EDUCATION.  453 

"Yes,  ma'am.     The  other  pair  I  have  on." 

"  They  are  a  great  deal  too  thin  for  this  time  of 
year.  Here  are  some  thicker  I  have  got  for  you. 
Sit  down  and  put  a  pair  of  these  on,  and  let  me 
have  those." 

Every  fibre  of  her  nature  rebelling,  Rotha  sat 
down  to  unbutton  her  boot.  It  was  hard  to  keep 
silence,  to  speak  "pleasantly"  impossible.  Tears 
were  near.  Rotha  bent  over  her  boot  and  prayed 
for  help.  And  then  the  thought  came,  fragrant 
and  sweet, — I  am  the  servant  of  Christ;  this  is  an 
opportunity  to  obey  and  please  him. 

And  with  that  she  was  content.  She  put  on  the 
coarse  stockings,  which  felt  extremely  uncomfor- 
table. But  then  she  could  not  get  her  boot  on. 
She  tugged  at  it  in  vain. 

"It  is  no  use,"  she  said  at  last.  "It  will  not  go 
on,  aunt  Serena.  I  cannot  wear  my  boots  with 
these  stockings." 

"  The  boots  must  be  too  small,"  said  Mrs.  Busby. 
She  came  herself,  and  pushed  and  pinched  and 
pulled  at  the  boot.  It  would  not  go  on. 

.  "What  do  you  get  such  tight-fitting  boots  for?" 
she  said,  sitting  back  on  the  floor,  quite  red  in  the 
face. 

"They  are  not  tight;  they  fit  me  perfectly." 

"  They  won't  go  on !  " 

"That  is  the  stockings." 

"Nonsense!  The  stockings  are  proper;  the  boots 
are  improper.  What  did  you  pay  for  them  ?  " 

"I  did  not  get  them." 


454  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"What  did  they  cost,  then?  I  suppose  you 
know." 

"  Six  and  a  half." 

"  I  can  get  you  for  three  and  a  half  what  will 
do  perfectly,"  said  Mrs.  Busby,  rising  up  from  the 
floor.  But  she  sat  down,  and  did  not  fetch  any 
boots,  as  Rotha  half  expected  she  would. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  to-morrow,  Eotha?" 
her  cousin  asked. 

"I  don't  know.  What  I  do  every  day,  I  sup- 
pose," Rotha  answered,  trying  to  make  her  voice 
clear. 

"  What  is  Mrs.  Mowbray  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"  I  wonder  if  she  receives  ?  Mamma,  do  you 
fancy  many  people  would  call  on  Mrs.  Mowbray?" 

"  Why  not  ?  "  Rotha  could  not  help  asking. 

"  0,  because  she  is  a  school  teacher,  you  know. 
Mamma,  do  you  think  there  would  ?  " 

"I  dare  say.  Your  father  will  go,  I  have  no 
doubt." 

"  0,  because  she  teaches  me.  And  other  fathers 
will  go,  I  suppose.  What  a  stupid  time  they  will 
have ! " 

"  Who  ?  "  said  Rotha. 

"  All  of  you  together.     I  am  glad  I'm  not  there." 

"  I  shall  not  be  there  either.  I  shall  be  up  stairs 
in  my  room." 

"Looking  at  your  Russia  leather  bag.  Why 
didn't  you  bring  it  for  us  to  see  ?  But  your  room 
means  three  or  four  other  people's  room,  don't  it?" 


EDUCATION.  455 

It  was  on  Botha's  Jips  to  say  that  she  had  a 
room  to  herself;  she  shut  them  and  did  not  say  it. 
A  sense  of  fun  began  to  mingle  with  her  inward 
anger.  Here  she  was  in  her  stockings,  unable  to 
get  her  feet  into  her  boots. 

"  How  am  I  to  get  home,  ma'am  ?  "  she  asked  as 
demurely  as  she  could. 

"  Antoinette,  haven't  you  a  pair  of  old  boots  or 
shoes,  that  Rotha  could  get  home  in  ?  " 

"What  should  I  do  when  I  got  there?  I  could 
not  wear  old  boots  about  the  house.  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray  would  not  like  it." 

"Nettie,  do  you  hear  me?"  Mrs.  Busby  said 
sharply.  "  Get  something  of  yours  to  put  on  Ro- 
tha's  feet." 

"  If  she  can't  wear  her  own,  she  couldn't  wear 
mine — "  said  Miss  Nettie,  unwilling  to  furnish  pos- 
itive evidence  that  her  foot  was  larger  than  her 
cousin's.  Her  mother  insisted  however,  and  the 
boots  were  brought.  They  went  on  easily  enough. 

"But  these  would  never  do  to  walk  in,"  objected 
Rotha.  "  My  feet  feel  as  if  each  one  had  a  whole 
barn  to  itself.  Look,  aunt  Serena.  And  I  could 
not  go  to  the  parlour  in  them." 

"  I  don't  see  but  you'll  have  to,  if  you  can't  get 
your  own  on.  You'll  have  worse  things  than  that 
to  do  before  you  die.  I  wouldn't  be  a  baby,  and 
cry  about  it." 

For  Rotha's  lips  were  trembling  and  her  eyes 
were  suddenly  full.  Her  neat  feet  transformed 
into  untidy,  shovelling  things  like  these !  and  her 


456  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

quick,  clean  gait  to  be  exchanged  for  a  boggling 
and  clumping  along  as  if  her  feet  were  in  loose 
boxes.  It  was  a  token  how  earnest  and  true  was 
Botha's  beginning  obedience  of  service,  that  she 
stooped  down  and  laced  the  boots  up,  without  say- 
ing another  word,  though  tears  of  mortification  fell 
on  the  carpet.  She  was  saying  to  herself,  "  If  it  be 
possible,  as  much  as  lieth  in  you,  live  peaceably 
with  all  men."  She  rose  up  and  made  her  adieux, 
as  briefly  as  she  could. 

"Are  you  not  going  to  thank  me?"  said  Mrs. 
Busby.  A  dangerous  flash  came  from  Botha's 
eyes. 

"  For  what,  aunt  Serena  ?  " 

"For  the  trouble  I  have  taken  for  you,  not  to 
speak  of  the  expense." 

Botha  was  silent,  biting  in  her  words,  as  it 
were. 

"Why  don't  you  speak?  You  can  at  least  be 
civil." 

"  I  don't  know  if  I  can,"  said  Botha.  "  It  is  dif- 
ficult. I  think  my  best  way  of  being  civil  is  to 
hold  my  tongue.  I  must  go — Good  bye,  ma'arn ! — " 
and  she  staid  for  no  more,  but  ran  out  and  down 
the  stairs.  She  paused  as  she  passed  the  open 
parlour  door,  paused  on  the  stairs,  and  then  went 
on  and  took  the  trouble  to  go  a  few  steps  back 
through  the  hall  to  get  the  interior  view  more  per- 
fectly. The  grate  was  hea-ped  full  of  coals  in  a 
state  of  vivid  glow,  the  red  warm  reflections  came 
from,  crimson  carpet  and  polished  rosewood  and 


EDUCATION.  457 

gilding  of  curtain  ornaments.  Antoinette's  piano 
gave  back  the  shimmer,  and  the  thick  rug  before 
the  hearth  looked  like  a  nest  of  comfort.  So  did 
the  whole  room.  A  feeling  of  the  security  and 
blessedness  of  a  home  came  over  Kotha.  This  was 
home  to  Antoinette.  It  was  not  home  to  herself, 
nor  was  any  other  place  in  all  the  earth.  Not  Mrs. 
Mowbray's  kind  house ;  it  was  kind,  but  it  was  not 
home;  and  a  keen  wish  crept  into  the  girl's  heart. 
To  have  a  home  somewhere  !  Would  the  time  ever 
be?  Must  she  perhaps,  as  her  aunt  foretold,  be 
a  houseless  wanderer,  teaching  in  other  people's 
homes,  and  having  none  ?  Rotha  looked  and  ran 
away;  and  as  her  feet  went  painfully  clumping 
along  the  streets  in  Antoinette's  big  boots,  some 
tears  of  forlornness  dropped  on  the  pavement. 
They  were  hot  and  bitter. 

But  I  am  a  servant  of  Christ — thought  Rotha, — 
I  am  a  servant  of  Christ;  I  have  been  fighting  to 
obey  him  this  afternoon,  and  he  has  helped  me. 
He  will  be  with  me,  at  any  rate;  and  he  can  take 
care  of  my  home  and  give  it  me,  if  he  pleases.  I 
needn't  worry.  I'll  just  let  him  take  care. 

So  with  that  the  tears  dried  again,  and  Rotha  en- 
tered Mrs.  Mowbray's  house  more  light-hearted 
than  she  had  left  it.  She  took  off  her  wrappings, 
and  sought  Mrs.  Mowbray  out. 

"Madame,"  she  said,  looking  at  her  feet,  "I 
wanted  you  to  know,  that  if  I  do  not  look  nice 
as  I  should,  it  is  not  my  fault." 

Mrs.  Mowbray's  eyes  likewise  went  to  the  boots, 


458  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

and  staid  there.  She  had  a  little  struggle  with 
herself,  not  to  speak  what  she  felt. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Kotha  ?  " 

"You  see,  Mrs.  Mowbray.  My  boots  would  not 
go  on  over  the  thick  stockings;  so  I  have  had 
to  put  on  a  pair  of  Antoinette's  boots.  So  if  I 
walk  queerly,  I  want  you  to  know  I  cannot  help 
it." 

"You  have  more  stockings  than  that  pair,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am ;  enough  to  last  a  good  while." 

"  Let  me  see  them." 

Mrs.  Mowbray  examined  the  thick  web. 

"Did  you  and  your  aunt  have  a  fight  over 
these?" 

"No,  madame,"  said  Eotha  softly. 

"  How  was  it  then  ?  You  put  them  on  quietly, 
and  without  remonstrance  ?  " 

"Not  exactly  without  remonstrance.  But  I 
didn't  say  much.  I  did  not  trust  myself  to  say 
much.  I  knew  I  should  say  too  much." 

"  What  made  you  fear  that  ?  " 

"  I  was  so  angry,  ma'am." 

There  came  some  tears  again,  dropping  from  Ko- 
tha's  eyes.  Mrs.  Mowbray  drew  her  down  with  a 
sudden  movement,  into  her  arms,  and  kissed  her 
over  and  over  again. 

"My  dear,"  she  said  with  a  merry  change  of 
tone,  "  thick  stockings  are  not  the  worst  things  in 
the  world ! " 

"No,  ma'am." 


EDUCATION.  459 

"You  don't  think  so." 

"  No,  ma'am." 

"  It  will  be  a  good  check  to  your  vanity,  eh  ?" 

"  Am  I  vain,  Mrs.  Mowbray  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know !  most  people  are.  Isn't  it  van- 
ity, that  makes  you  dislike  to  see  your  feet  in  shoes 
too  large  for  them  ?  " 

"  Is  it  ?  "  said  Eotha.  "  But  it  is  right  to  like  to 
look  nice,  Mrs.  Mowbray,  is  it  not?" 

"  It  is  right  to  like  to  see  everything  look  nice, 
therefore  of  course  oneself  included." 

"  Then  that  is  not  vanity." 

"No, — but  vanity  is  near.  It  all  depends  on 
what  you  want  to  look  nice  for." 

Kotha  looked  an  inquiry. 

"What  do  you  want  to  look  nice  for?"  Mrs. 
Mowbray  asked  smiling. 

"I  suppose,"  Rotha  said  slowly,  "one  likes  to 
have  people  like  one." 

"  And  you  think  the  question  of  dress  has  to  do 
with  that  ?  " 

•"Yes,  ma'am,  I  do." 

"Well,  so  do  I.  But  then — why  do  you  want 
people  to  like  you?  What  for  ?  " 

"  One  cannot  help  it,"  said  Rotha,  her  eyes  open- 
ing a  little  at  these  self-evident  questions. 

"  Perhaps  that  is  true.  However,  Rotha,  there 
are  two  reasons  for  it  and  lying  back  of  the  wish ; 
one  is  one's  own  pleasure  or  advantage  simply. 
The  other  is — the  honour  and  service  of  God." 

"  How,  ma'am  ?     I  do  not  see." 


460  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"Just  using  dress  like  everything  else,  as — a 
means  of  influence.  I  knew  a  lady  who  told  me 
that  since  she  was  a  child,  she  had  never  dressed 
herself  that  she  did  not  do  it  for  Christ.'' 

Kotha  was  silent  and  pondered.  "Mrs.  Mow- 
bray,  I  think  that  is  beautiful,"  she  said  then. 

"  So  do  I,  my  dear." 

"  But  that  would  not  make  me  like  these  boots 
any  better." 

" No,"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray  laughing.  "Naturally. 
But  I  think  nevertheless,  in  the  circumstances,  it 
would  be  better  for  you  to  wear  them,  at  least  dur- 
ing some  of  this  winter  weather,  than  to  discard 
them  and  put  on  others.  You  shall  judge  your- 
self. What  would  be  the  effect,  if,  being  known 
to  have  plenty  of  shoes  and  stockings  to  cover 
your  feet,  you  cast  them  aside,  and  I  procured  you 
others,  better  looking  ?  " 

"  0  you  could  not  do  that !  "  cried  Eotha. 

"If  I  followed  my  inclinations,  I  should  do  it 
But  what  would  the  effect  be  ?  " 

Eotha  considered.  "  I  suppose, — I  should  be 
called  very  proud;  and  you,  madam e,  very  ex- 
travagant, and  partial." 

"  Not  a  desirable  effect." 

"No,  madame.  0  no !  I  must  wear  these  things." 
Rotha  sighed. 

"  Especially  as  we  are  both  called  Christians." 

"Yes,  madame.  There  are  a  good  many  right 
things  that  are  hard  to  do,  Mrs.  Mowbray !  " 

"Else  there  would  be  no  taking  up  the  cross. 


EDUCATION.  461 

But  we  ought  to  welcome  any  occasion  of  honour- 
ing our  profession,  even  if  it  be  a  cross." 

Rotha  went  away  much  comforted.  Yet  the 
clumsy  foot  gear  remained  a  constant  discomfort  to 
her,  every  time  she  put  them  on  and  every  time  she 
felt  the  heavy  clump  they  gave  to  her  gait.  Hap- 
pily, she  had  no  leisure  to  dwell  on  these  things. 

The  holidays  were  ended,  and  the  girls  came 
trooping  back  from  their  various  homes  or  places 
of  pleasure.  They  came,  as  usual,  somewhat  dis- 
organized by  idleness  and  license.  Study  went 
hard,  and  discipline  seemed  unbearable;  tempers 
were  in  an  uncertain  and  irritable  state.  Rotha 
hugged  herself  that  she  had  her  own  little  corner 
room,  in  which  she  could  be  quite  private  and 
removed  from  all  share  in  the  dissensions  and 
murmurings,  which  she  knew  abounded  elsewhere. 
It  was  a  very  little  room ;  but  it  held  her  and  her 
books  and  her  modest  wardrobe  too;  and  Rotha 
bent  herself  to  her  studies  with  great  ardour  and 
delight.  She  knew  she  was  not  popular  among 
the  girls;  the  very  fact  of  her  having  a  room 
to  herself  would  almost  have  accounted  for  that; 
"there  was  no  reason  on  earth  why  she  should 
have  it,"  as  one  of  them  said;  and  Mrs.  Mowbray 
was  accused  of  favouritism.  Furthermore,  Rotha 
was  declared  to  be  "nobody,"  and  known  to  be 
poor;  there  was  no  advantage  to  be  gained  by 
being  her  adherent;  and  the  world  goes  by  ad- 
vantage. Added  to  all  which,  she  was  distancing 
in  her  studies  all  the  girls  near  her  own  age,  and 


462  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

becoming  known  as  the  cleverest  one  in  the  house. 
No  wonder  Rotha  had  looks  askance  and  frequently 
the  cold  shoulder.  Her  temperament,  however, 
made  her  half  unconscious  of  this,  and  when  con- 
scious, comfortably  independent.  She  was  one  of 
those  natures  which  live  a  concentrated  life;  lov- 
ing deeply  and  seeking  eagerly  the  good  opinion 
of  a  few ;  to  all  the  rest  of  the  world  careless  and 
superior.  She  was  polite  and  pleasant  in  her  man- 
ners, which  was  easy,  she  was  so  happy;  but  she 
was  hardly  winning  or  ingratiating;  too  indepen- 
dent; and  too  outspoken. 

The  rule  was  that  at  the  ringing  of  a  bell  iu 
the  morning  all  the  girls  should  rise;  and  at  the 
ringing  of  a  second  bell  everybody  should  repair 
to  the  parlours  for  prayers  and  reading  the  Bible. 
The  interval  between  the  two  bells  was  amply 
sufficient  to  alloAv  the  most  fastidious  dresser  to 
make  her  toilette.  But  the  hour  was  early;  arid 
the  rousing  bell  an  object  of  great  detestation ;  also, 
it  may  be  said,  the  half  hour  given  to  the  Scrip- 
tures and  prayer  was  a  weariness  if  not  to  the 
flesh  to  the  spirit,  of  many  in  the  family.  So  it 
sometimes  happened  that  one  and  another  was 
behind  time,  and  came  into  the  parlour  while  the 
reading  was  going  on,  or  after  prayers  were  over. 
Mrs.  Mowbray  remarked  upon  this  once  or  twice. 
Then  came  an  outbreak;  which  allowed  Eotha  to 
see  a  new  side  of  her  friend's  character,  or  to  see 
it  more  plainly  than  heretofore.  It  was  one  morn- 
ing a  week  or  two  after  school  had  begun  again ; 


EDUCATION.  463 

a  cold  morning  in  January.  The  gas  was  lit  in 
the  parlours ;  Mrs.  Mowbray  was  at  the  table  with 
her  books;  the  girls  seated  in  long  lines  around 
the  rooms,  each  with  a  Bible. 

"  Where  is  Miss  Bransome  ? "  Mrs.  Mowbray 
asked,  looking  along  the  lines  of  faces.  "And 
Miss  Dunstable?" 

Nobody  spoke. 

"  Miss  Foster,  will  you  have  the  kindness  to  go 
up  to  Miss  Bransome  and  Miss  Dunstable,  and  tell 
them  we  are  waiting  for  them  ?  " 

The  young  lady  went  Profound  silence.  Then 
appeared,  after  some  delay,  the  missing  members 
of  the  family;  they  came  in  and  took  their  seats  in 
silence. 

"  Good  morning,  young  ladies ! "  said  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray. "  Have  you  slept  well  ?  " 

"  Quite  well,  madame," — one  of  them  answered, 
making  an  expressive  facial  sign  to  her  neighbours 
on  the  other  side,  which  Rotha  saw  and  greatly 
resented. 

"  So  well  that  you  did  not  hear  the  bell  ?  "  Mrs. 
Mowbray  went  on. 

Silence. 

"  Answer,  if  you  please.     Did  you  hear  the  bell  ?  " 

"  I  did,  madame,"  came  in  faint  tones  from  one 
of  the  young  ladies;  and  a  still  more  smothered 
affirmative  from  the  other. 

"  Then  why  were  you  late  ?  " 

Again  silence.  Profound  attention  in  all  parts 
of  the  rooms ;  nobody  stirring. 


462  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

becoming  known  as  the  cleverest  one  in  the  house. 
No  wonder  Rotha  had  looks  askance  and  frequently 
the  cold  shoulder.  Her  temperament,  however, 
made  her  half  unconscious  of  this,  and  when  con- 
scious, comfortably  independent.  She  was  one  of 
those  natures  which  live  a  concentrated  life;  lov- 
ing deeply  and  seeking  eagerly  the  good  opinion 
of  a  few ;  to  all  the  rest  of  the  world  careless  and 
superior.  She  was  polite  arid  pleasant  in  her  man- 
ners, which  was  easy,  she  was  so  happy;  but  she 
was  hardly  winning  or  ingratiating;  too  indepen- 
dent; and  too  outspoken. 

The  rule  was  that  at  the  ringing  of  a  bell  iu 
the  morning  all  the  girls  should  rise;  and  at  the 
ringing  of  a  second  bell  everybody  should  repair 
to  the  parlours  for  prayers  and  reading  the  Bible. 
The  interval  between  the  two  bells  was  amply 
sufficient  to  allow  the  most  fastidious  dresser  to 
make  her  toilette.  But  the  hour  was  early;  and 
the  rousing  bell  an  object  of  great  detestation ;  also, 
it  may  be  said,  the  half  hour  given  to  the  Scrip- 
tures and  prayer  was  a  weariness  if  not  to  the 
flesh  to  the  spirit,  of  many  in  the  family.  So  it 
sometimes  happened  that  one  and  another  was 
behind  time,  and  came  into  the  parlour  while  the 
reading  was  going  on,  or  after  prayers  were  over. 
Mrs.  Mowbray  remarked  upon  this  once  or  twice. 
Then  came  an  outbreak;  which  allowed  Rotha  to 
see  a  new  side  of  her  friend's  character,  or  to  see 
it  more  plainly  than  heretofore.  It  was  one  morn- 
ing a  week  or  two  after  school  had  begun  again ; 


EDUCATION.  463 

a  cold  morning  in  January.  The  gas  was  lit  in 
the  parlours ;  Mrs.  Mowbray  was  at  the  table  with 
her  books;  the  girls  seated  in  long  lines  around 
the  rooms,  each  with  a  Bible. 

"  Where  is  Miss  Bransome  ? "  Mrs.  Mowbray 
asked,  looking  along  the  lines  of  faces.  "And 
Miss  Dunstable ?" 

Nobody  spoke. 

"  Miss  Foster,  will  you  have  the  kindness  to  go 
up  to  Miss  Bransome  and  Miss  Dunstable,  and  tell 
them  we  are  waiting  for  them  ?  " 

The  young  lady  went  Profound  silence.  Then 
appeared,  after  some  delay,  the  missing  members 
of  the  family;  they  came  in  and  took  their  seats  in 
silence. 

"  Good  morning,  young  ladies ! "  said  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray. "  Have  you  slept  well  ?  " 

"  Quite  well,  madame," — one  of  them  answered, 
making  an  expressive  facial  sign  to  her  neighbours 
on  the  other  side,  which  Rotha  saw  and  greatly 
resented. 

"  So  well  that  you  did  not  hear  the  bell  ?  "  Mrs. 
Mowbray  went  on. 

Silence. 

"  Answer,  if  you  please.     Did  you  hear  the  bell  ?  " 

"  I  did,  madame,"  came  in  faint  tones  from  one 
of  the  young  ladies;  and  a  still  more  smothered 
affirmative  from  the  other. 

"  Then  why  were  you  late  ?  " 

Again  silence.  Profound  attention  in  all  parts 
of  the  rooms ;  nobody  stirring. 


464  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"It  has  happened  once  or  twice  before.  Now, 
young  ladies,  please  take  notice,"  said  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray,  raising  her  voice  somewhat.  "  If  any  young 
lady  is  not  in  her  place  here  at  seven  o'clock,  I 
shall  go  up  for  her  myself;  and  if  I  go  up  for  her, 
she  will  have  to  come  down  with  me, — -just  as  she 
is.  I  will  bring  you  down  in  your  nightgown,  if 
you  are  not  out  of  it  before  I  come  for  you;  you 
shall  come  down  in  your  night  dress,  here,  to 
the  parlour.  So  now  you  know  what  you  have 
to  expect;  and  remember,  I  always  keep  my 
promises." 

The  silence  was  awful,  Rotha  thought.  It  was 
unbroken,  even  by  a  movement,  until  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray  turned  round  to  her  book  and  took  up  the 
interrupted  reading.  Very  decorously  the  reading 
went  on  and  ended;  in  subdued  good  order  the 
girls  came  to  the  table  and  eat  their  breakfast ;  but 
there  were  smouldering  fires  under  this  calm  ex- 
terior; and  it  was  to  be  expected  that  when  the 
chance  came  the  fire  would  break  forth. 

The  chance  came  that  same  evening  before  tea. 
The  girls  were  gathered,  preparatory  to  that  cere- 
mony, in  the  warm,  well  lighted  rooms;  and  as  the 
custom  was,  each  one  had  her  favourite  bit  of  or- 
namental work  in  hand.  It  was  a  small  leisure 
time.  No  teacher,  as  it  happened,  was  in  the  front 
parlour  where  Rotha  sat,  deep  in  a  book;  and  a 
conversation  began  near  her,  in  under  tones  to  be 
sure,  which  she  could  not  but  hear.  Several  new 
scholars  had  come  into  the  family  at  the  New 


EDUCATION.  465 

Year.  One  of  these,  a  Miss  Farren,  made  the  re- 
mark that  Mrs.  Mowbray  had  "  showed  out "  that 
morning. 

"  Didn't  she  !  "  said  another  girl.  "  0  that's  what 
she  is  !  You'll  see.  That's  just  what  she  is." 

"  She  is  an  old  cat !  " 

This  last  speaker  was  Miss  Dunstable,  and  the 
spitefulness  of  the  words  brought  Rotha's  head  up 
from  her  book,  with  ears  pointed  and  sharpened. 

"  I  thought  she  looked  so  sweet,"  the  new  comer, 
Miss  Farren,  remarked  further.  "  I  was  quite  taken 
with  her  at  first.  I  thought  she  looked  so  pleasant." 

"  Pleasant !  She's  as  pleasant  as  a  mustard  plas- 
ter, and  as  sweet  as  cayenne  pepper.  I'll  tell  you, 
Miss  Farren;  you're  a  stranger;  you  may  as  well 
know  what  you  have  to  expect — " 

"  Hush,  girls !  " 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  said  the  Dunstable,  look- 
ing round.  "  There's  nobody  near.  Jewett  has 
gone  off  into  the  other  room.  No,  it  is  a  work 
of  charity  to  let  Miss  Farren  into  the  secrets  of 
her  prison  house,  'cause  there  are  two  sides  to 
every  game.  Mrs.  M.  is  a  tyrannical,  capricious, 
hypocritical,  domineering,  fiery  old  cat.  O  she's 
fiery ;  you  have  got  to  take  care  how  you  rise  up 
and  sit  down;  and  she's  stiff,  she  thinks  there's 
only  one  way  and  that's  her  way;  and  she's  unjust, 
she  has  favourites — " 

"  They  all  have  favourites !  "  here  put  in  another. 

"  She  has  ridiculous  favourites.  And  she  is  pious, 
you'll  be  deluged  with  the  Bible  and  prayers;  and 


468  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Miss  Dunstable  will  hate  you,  I  can  tell  you. 
She'll  be  your  enemy  after  this." 

"That  is  nothing  to  me." 

"Yes,  it's  all  very  well  to  say  that,  but  you 
won't  think  so  when  you  come  to  find  out.  She 
belongs  to  a  very  rich  family,  and  she  is  worth 
having  for  a  friend." 

"A  girl  like  that ?  "  cried  Rotha.  " A  low  spirited, 
false  girl  ?  Worth  having  for  a  friend  ?  Not  to  any- 
body who  is  worth  anything  herself." 

"  But  she  is  ever  so  rich." 

"  What's  that  to  me  ?  Do  you  think  I  am  going 
to  sit  by  and  hear  Mrs.  Mowbray  slandered,  or  any- 
body else,  because  the  story  teller  has  plenty  of 
money  ?  What  is  her  money  to  me  ?  " 

"Well, *I  don't  know,"  said  the  other  deprecat- 
ingly.  "  It  puts  things  in  her  power.  Her  fam- 
ily is  one  of  the  best  in  New  York." 

"Then  the  other  members  of  it  are  much  superior 
to  this  one ! — that's  all  I  have  got  to  say." 

"  But  Rotha,  she  can  hurt  you." 

"How?" 

"She  can  make  the  other  girls  treat  you  ill." 

"  I  can  bear  as  much  as  that  for  Mrs.  Mowbray, 
I  guess." 

"  What  makes  you  like  her  so  much  ?  " 

Rotha's  eyes  gave  a  wondering,  very  expressive, 
glance  at  her  interlocutor. 

"  Because  she  is  so  unspeakably  good,  and  beau- 
tiful, and  generous.  .  She  is  a  kind  of  a  queen !  " 

"  She  likes  to  rule." 


EDUCATION.  469 

"  She  has  to  rule.  What  sort  of  a  place  would 
the  house  be,  if  she  did  not  rule  ?  " 

"  But,  Julia  Dunstable  could  do  you  good,  if  she 
liked." 

"  Could  she  ?     How  ?  "  said  Botha  drily. 

"  0  she  could  put  pleasant  things  in  your  way. 
She  gave  some  of  us  a  lovely  invitation  to  a  Christ- 
mas party;  we  had  a  royal  time;  and  she  asks  the 
girls  every  now  and  then." 

"And  you  would  have  me  be  a  traitor  for  the 
sake  of  an  invitation?  Bell  Savage,  I  do  not  want 
invitations  from  such  people." 

"  La,  Rotha,  the  world  is  full  of  such  people ;  you 
cannot  pick  and  choose." 

"But  I  will.  I  will  pick  and  choose  those  whom 
I  honour  with  my  friendship.  And  I  can  assure 
you  of  one  thing;  my  family  would  be  very 
much  ashamed  of  such  a  one  belonging  to  it, 
as  the  one  you  want  me  to  court.  I  court  nobody. 
And  I  will  expose  a  lie  wherever  I  find  it,  if  it's 
my  business." 

I  think  Rotha  forgot  at  the  moment  that  Mrs. 
Busby  belonged  to  "  her  family."  However,  Miss 
Savage  was  not  wrong  in  supposing  that  her  inter- 
ference with  Miss  Dunstable  would  come  back 
upon  her  own  head.  She  was  made  to  feel  that  a 
large  number  of  the  girls  looked  down  upon  her 
and  that  they  refused  all  community  with  her. 
Even  from  people  one  does  not  care  for,  this  sort 
of  treatment  is  more  or  less  painful;  and  it  cer- 
tainly made  Rotha's  school  days  less  joyous  in 


470  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

some  respects  than  they  might  otherwise  have 
been.  From  one  reason  and  another,  the  greater 
proportion  of  her  companions  turned  her  the  cold 
shoulder.  Some  for  partisanship,  some  for  subser- 
viency, some  to  be  in  the  fashion,  and  others  again 
for  pure  envy. 

For  Rotha  sprang  forward  in  her  learning  and 
surpassed  all  who  were  associated  with  her,  in  their 
mutual  studies.  Her  partial  isolation  contributed, 
no  doubt,  to  this  end;  having  little  social  distrac- 
tion, no  home  outside  her  school  walls,  and  no 
delight  in  the  things  which  occupied  most  of  the 
minds  within  them,  she  bent  to  her  books;  drank, 
and  drank  deep,  of  the  "  Castalian  spring,"  and 
with  ever  increasing  enjoyment.  She  studied,  not 
to  get  and  keep  a  high  position,  or  to  gain  distinc- 
tion, or  to  earn  praise  or  prizes,  but  for  pure  pleas- 
ure in  study  and  eagerness  to  increase  knowledge 
and  to  satisfy  Mrs.  Mowbray.  So  her  progress  was 
not  only  rapid  but  thorough;  what  she  gained  she 
kept;  and  her  mental  growth  was  equal  to  her 
physical. 

The  physical  was  rapid  and  beautiful.  Rotha 
shot  up  tall,  and  developed  into  a  very  noble-look- 
ing girl;  intelligent,  spirited,  sweet  and  strong  at 
once.  Her  figure  was  excellent;  her  movement 
graceful  and  free,  as  suited  her  character;  colour 
clear  and  brunette,  telling  of  flawless  health ;  and 
an  eye  of  light  and  force  and  fire  and  honesty, 
which  it  was  at  all  times  a  pleasure  to  meet,  speak- 
ing of  the  active,  brave  and  true  spirit  to  which  it 


EDUCATION.  471 

belonged.  By  degrees,  as  all  this  became  manifest, 
shewed  itself  also  the  effect  of  culture,  and  the 
blessing  of  real  education.  Refinement  touched 
every  line  of  Rotha's  face,  and  marked  every  move- 
ment and  every  tone.  She  gained  command  over 
her  impetuous  nature,  not  so  but  that  it  broke 
bounds  occasionally;  yet  the  habit  became  mod- 
eration, and  something  of  the  beautiful  quiet  of 
manner  which  Rotha  had  always  admired  in  Mr. 
Southwode,  did  truly  now  belong  to  herself.  Mrs. 
Mowbray  had  perpetual  delight  in  her.  Was  it 
wonderful,  when  so  many  faces  were  only  care- 
lessly obtuse,  or  stupidly  indifferent,  or  obstinately 
perverse,  that  the  mistress  should  turn  to  the  bright 
eye  which  was  sure  to  have  caught  her  meaning, 
and  watch  for  the  answer  from  lips  which  were 
sure  to  give  it  with  rare  intelligence. 

Those  lessons  from  her  beloved  teacher  were  be- 
yond all  other  lessons  prized  and  delighted  in  by 
Rotha.  They  gave  incentive  to  a  vast  deal  of  use- 
ful reading,  more  or  less  directly  connected  with 
the  subject  in  hand.  Some  of  the  girls  followed 
out  this 'reading  extensively;  and  no  one  so  much 
as  Rotha.  Her  great  quickness  and  diligence  with 
her  regular  lessons  made  this  possible. 

Meanwhile,  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Rotha's 
feet  remained  permanently  in  their  coarse  habili- 
•ments.  When  the  cold  and  the  snows  were  gone, 
and  lighter  airs  and  warmer  weather  came  in  with 
spring,  Mrs.  Mowbray  exchanged  the  uncomely 
boots  aad  thick  stockings  for  others  which  better 


472  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

suited  Rotha's  need  and  comfort.  No  more  ani- 
madversions were  heard  on  the  subject  from  Mi's. 
Busby,  who  indeed  seemed  rather  inclined  to  let 
Rotha  alone. 

And  so  went  by  two  years;  two  years  of  growth 
and  up-building  and  varied  developement;  years 
of  enjoyment  and  affection  and  peace.  The  short 
intervals  during  which  she  was  an  inmate  of  her 
aunt's  family  served  only  as  enhancement  of  all 
the  rest;  foils  to  the  brightness  of  Mrs.  Mowbray's 
house,  and  sharpeners  of  the  appetite  that  was  fed 
there.  Nothing  was  ever  heard  of  Mr.  Digby,  not 
by  Rotha  at  least ;  and  this  was  her  only  grief.  For 
Rotha  was  true  to  her  affections;  and  where  she 
had  loved  once,  did  not  forget  Once  she  asked 
Mrs.  Mowbray  if  it  was  not  strange  she  never  got 
any  word  from  Mr.  Southwode  ?  "  Why  should 
you,  my  dear  ? "  Mrs.  Mowbray  replied,  with  an 
impenetrable  face. 

"Because — I  suppose,  because  I  loved  him  so 
much,"  said  Rotha  innocently;  "and  I  think  he  is 
true." 

"He  has  done  a  friend's  part  by  you;  and  now 
there  is  nothing  more  for  him  to  do.  I  see  no  rea- 
son why  he  should  write  to  you." 

I  do ! — thought  Rotha;  but  Mrs.  Mowbray's  tone 
did  not  invite  her  to  pursue  the  subject ;  and  she 
let  it  thenceforth  alone. 


CHAPTEK   XXII. 

A  CHANGE. 

THE  two  years  of  smooth  sailing  along  the  stream 
of  life,  were  ended.  What  was  coming  next? 
But  how  should  the  sailor  learn  navigation,  if  he 
had  never  anything  but  calm  weather  and  quiet 
airs  ? 

It  was  spring,  late  in  May;  when  one  evening 
Mrs.  Mowbray  came  into  Botha's  little  room,  shut 
the  door,  and  sat  down.  Botha  looked  up  from  her 
book  and  smiled.  Mrs.  Mowbray  looked  down  at 
the  book  and  sighed.  A  heavy  sigh,  it  seemed  to 
Botha,  and  her  smile  died  away. 

"  You  want  to  speak  to  me,  madame  ?  "  she  said, 
and  laid  her  book  away. 

"  I  am  going  to  send  you  home — "  said  the  lady 
abruptly. 

"  Home ! — "  the  word  was  but  half  uttered.  What 
was  this  ?  The  term  was  not  near  at  an  end. 

"  You  must  go,  my  dear,"  Mrs.  Mowbray  went  on 
more  softly;  for  the  first  word  had  been  spoken 
with  the  sternness  of  pain.  "  I  must  send  you  all 
awav  from  me." 

"Whom?" 


474  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  All  of  you !  It  has  pleased  heaven  to  visit  me 
with  a  great  calamity.  You  must  all  go." 

"  What  is  it,  Mrs.  Mowbray  ?  "  said  Rotha,  trem 
bling  with  a  fear  to  which  she  could  give  no  form. 

"  I  do  not  know,  but  I  think  it  too  probable,  that 
a  contagious  disease  has  broken  out  in  my  family. 
The  little  Snyders  are  both  ill  with  scarlet  fever." 

"  They  are  at  home." 

"But  Miss  Tremont  is  taken  in  just  the  same 
way,  and  Miss  de  Forest  is  complaining.  I  have 
isolated  them  both;  but  I  have  no  choice  but  to 
send  all  the  rest  of  you  away,  till  I  shall  know  how 
the  thing  will  go." 

Rotha  looked  terribly  blank. 

"  It  is  hard,  isn't  it  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Mowbray,  notic- 
ing this  with  a  faint  smile ;  "  but  it  is  not  best  for 
us  to  have  things  go  too  smooth.  I  have  had  no 
rubs  for  two  years  or  more." 

That  this  was  a  hard  "  rub  "  was  evident.  Mrs. 
Mowbray  sat  looking  before  her  with  a  troubled 
face. 

"  Why  is  it  best  for  us  that  things  should  not  go 
smooth  ?  "  Rotha  ventured.  To  her  sense  the  pos- 
sible good  of  this  disturbance  was  not  apparent, 
while  the  positive  evil  was  manifold. 

"The  Lord  knows!"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray.  "He 
sees  uses,  and  needs,  which  we  do  not  suspect.  I 
am  sorry  for  you,  my  dear  child." 

"And  I  am  sorry  you  are  troubled,  dear  Mrs. 
Mowbray ! " 

"  I  know  you  are.     Your  sympathy  is  very  sweet 


A  CHANGE.  475 

to  me. — We  have  had  a  pleasant  two  years  together, 
have  we  not  ?  " 

"Oh  so  pleasant!"  echoed  Rotha,  almost  in  tears. 
"But — this  sickness  will  pass  over;  and  then  we 
may  come  back  again,  may  we  not  ?  " 

"  It  is  too  near  the  end  of  term,  to  come  back  this 
spring.  It  cannot  be -before  next  September  now; 
and  that  is  a  long  way  off.  One  never  knows  what 
will  happen  in  so  many  months !  " 

Rotha  had  never  seen  Mrs.  Mowbray  look  or 
speak  so  despondently.  She  was  too  utterly  down- 
hearted herself  to  say  another  word  of  hope  or  con- 
fidence. Four  months  of  interval  and  separation  ! 
Four  months  with  her  aunt !  What  would  become 
of  her  ?  What  might  happen  in  the  mean  time  ? 

"  When  must  I  go,  Mrs.  Mowbray  ? "  she  asked 
sadly. 

"To-night.  Yes,  my  child,  I  must  send  you 
away  from  me.  You  have  been  a  comfort  to  me 
ever  since  you  came  into  my  house;  and  now  I 
must  send  you  away."  She  folded  Rotha  in  her 
arms  and  kissed  her  almost  passionately.  Then  let 
her  go,  and  spoke  in  business  tones  again. 

"Put  up  whatever  you  wish  to  take  with  you. 
The  carriage  will  be  at  the  door  at  half  past  eight. 
I  shall  go  with  you." 

With  which  words  she  departed. 

The  tears  came  now,  which  had  been  carefully 
kept  back  until  Mrs.  Mowbray  was  gone;  and  it 
was  under  a  very  shower  of  heavy  drops  that  Ro- 
tha folded  and  stowed  away  all  her  belongings. 


47G  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Stowed  them  in  her  trunk,  which  Mrs.  Mowbray 
had  at  once  sent  up  to  her  room.  Amidst  all  her 
tears,  Rotha  worked  like  a  sprite ;  she  would  leave 
nothing  on  her  kind  friend's  hands  to  do  for  her, 
not  even  anything  to  think  of.  She  packed  all 
away,  wondering  the  while  why  this  sudden  in- 
terruption to  her  prosperous  course  of  study  and 
growth  should  have  been  allowed  to  come;  won- 
dering when  and  how  the  interrupted  course  would 
be  allowed  to  go  on  again.  Happily  she  did  not 
know  what  experiences  would  fill  the  next  few 
months,  in  which  Mrs.  Mowbray's  fostering  care 
would  not  help  her  nor  reach  her;  nor  what  a 
new  course  of  lessons  she  would  be  put  upon. 
Not  knowing  all  this,  Rotha  shed  bitter  tears,  it  is 
true,  but  not  despairing.  And  when  the  summons 
came,  she  was  ready,  and  joined  Mrs.  Mowbray  in 
the  carriage  with  calm  self-possession  restored. 

The  drive  was  almost  silent.  Once  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray asked  if  there  was  anything  Rotha  had  left  to 
be  done  for  her  in  her  room  or  in  the  house  ?  Ro- 
tha said  "Nothing;  all  was  done";  and  then  the 
carriage  rolled  on  silently  as  before;  the  one  of  its 
occupants  too  busy  with  grave  thoughts  to  leave 
her  tongue  free,  the  other  sorrowfully  wishing  she 
would  talk,  yet  not  daring  to  ask  it.  Arrived  at 
the  door,  however,  Mrs.  Mowbray  folded  the  girl 
in  her  arms,  giving  her  warm  kisses  and  broken 
words  of  love,  and  ending  with  bidding  her  write 
often. 

"  I  may  be  unable  to  answer  you,  but  do  .not  let 


A  CHANGE.  477 

that  stop  you.  Write  always;  I  shall  want  to  hear 
everything  about  you." 

And  Rotha  answered,  it  would  be  the  greatest 
joy  to  her;  and  they  parted. 

She  went  in  at  a  somewhat  peculiar  moment. 
Half  an  hour  sooner,  Antoinette  had  returned  from 
a  friend's  house  where  she  had  been  dining,  and 
burst  into  the  parlour  with  news. 

"  Mamma  !  "  she  exclaimed,  before  the  door  was 
shut  behind  her, — "Guess  what  is  coming." 

"  What  ?  "  said  her  mother  calmly.  She  was  ac- 
customed to  Antoinette's  superlatives. 

"  Mr.  Southwode  is  coming  back. — " 

Now  Mrs.  Busby  did  prick  up  her  ears.  "  How 
do  you  know  ?  " 

"There  was  a  Mr.  Lingard  at  dinner — a  prosy 
old  fellow,  as  tiresome  as  ever  he  could  be;  but  he 
is  English,  and  knows  the  Southwodes,  and  he  told 
lots  about  them." 

"What?" 

"0  I  don't  know! — a  lot  of  stuff.  About  the 
business  and  the  property,  and  how  old  Mr.  South- 
wode left  it  all  to  this  son;  and  he  carries  it  on  in 
some  ridiculous  way  that  I  didn't  understand;  and 
the  uncle  tried  to  break  the  will,  and  there  has 
been  a  world  of  trouble ;  but  now  Mr.  Digby  South- 
wode is  coming  back  to  New  York." 

"  When  ?  " 

"  O  soon ;  any  day.  He  may  be  here  any  day. 
And  then,  mamma — " 

"  And  was  the  will  broken  ?  " 


478  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"No,  I  believe  not.  At  any  rate,  Mr.  South- 
wode,  our  Mr.  Southwode,  has  it  all.  But  he's  ab- 
surd, mamma;  he  pays  people,  workmen,  more  than 
they  ought  to  have ;  and  he  sells,  or  makes  them 
sell,  for  less;  less  than  the  market  price;  and  he 
gives  away  all  his  income.  So  Mr.  Lingard  says." 

"He  will  learn  better,"  said  Mrs.  Busby. 

"  Well,  mamma,  he's  coming  back ;  and  what  will 
you  do  ?  " 

"Welcome  him,"  said  her  mother.  "I  always 
liked  Mr.  Southwode." 

"Yes,  yes,  but  I  mean,  about  Botha.  He  will 
look  her  up,  the  first  thing;  and  she  will  fly  ec- 
statically to  meet  him — I  remember  their  parting 
salute  two  years  ago,  and  their  meeting^  I  don't 
doubt,  will  be  equally  tender.  Mamma,,  are  you 
prepared  to  come  down  with  something  handsome 
in  the  way  of  wedding  presents  ?  " 

"  Nonsense ! " 

"It's  not  nonsense! "  said  Antoinette  vehemently. 
"It  will  be  the  absurd  truth,  before  you  know 
where  you  are ;  and  papa,  and  you,  and  I,  we  shall 
all  have  the  felicity  of  offering  congratulations  and 
holding  receptions.  If  you  don't  prevent  it,  mam- 
ma !  Cant  you  prevent  it ?  wont  you  prevent  it ? 
0  mamma !  won't  you  prevent  it  ?  " 

"  Get  up,  Antoinette  " — for  the  young  lady  had 
thrown  herself  down  on  the  floor  in  her  urgency, 
at  her  mother's  feet.  "  Get  up,  and  take  off  your 
things;  you  are  extremely  silly.  I  have  no  inten- 
tion of  letting  them  meet  at  all." 


A  CHANGE.  479 

"Mamma,  how  are  you  going  to  help  it?  He 
will  find  out  where  she  is  at  school — he  will  go 
straight  there,  and  then  you  may  depend  Eotha 
will  snap  her  fingers  at  you.  So  will  he;  and  to 
have  two  people  snapping  their  fingers  at  us  will 
just  drive  me  wild." 

Mrs.  Busby  could  not  help  laughing.  At  the 
same  time,  she  as  well  as  Antoinette  regarded  the 
matter  from  a  very  serious  point  of  view.  She 
knew  Rotha  had  grown  up  very  handsome;  and 
all  her  mother's  partiality  did  not  make  her  sure 
that  men  like  Mr.  Southwode  might  not  prefer  the 
sense  and  grace  and  spirit  which  breathed  from 
every  look  and  motion  of  Rotha's,  to  the  doll 
beauty  of  her  own  daughter.  Yet  it  was  not  in- 
sipid beauty  either;  the  face  of  Antoinette  was  ex- 
ceedingly pretty,  the  smile  very  captivating,  and 
the  white  and  peach-blossom  very  lovely  in  her 
cheeks.  But  for  sense,  or  dignity,  or  sympathy 
with  any  thoughts  high  and  noble,  if  one  looked 
to  Antoinette  one  would  look  in  vain.  No  matter; 
hers  was  just  a  style  which  captivates  men,  Mrs. 
Busby  knew;  even  sensible  men, — the  only  dangei 
was  in  possible  comparison  or  contrast.  That  dan- 
ger should  be  avoided. 

"  Nobody  will  snap  fingers  at  me,"  she  compla 
cently  remarked. 

"  But  how  will  you  help  it  ?  " 

"I  dare  say  there  is  no  danger.  Get  up,  An 
toinette !  there  is  the  door  bell." 

And  then  in  walked  Rotha. 


480  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

It  struck  her  that  her  aunt  and  cousin  were  a 
little  more  than  ordinarily  stiff  towards  her;  but 
of  course  they  had  no  reason  to  expect  her  then, 
and  the  surprise  was  not  agreeable.  So  Rotha 
dismissed  the  matter  with  a  passing  thought  and 
an  uiibreathed  sigh;  while  she  told  the  cause  of 
her  unlooked-for  appearance.  Mrs.  Busby  sat  and 
meditated. 

"  It  is  very  unfortunate  !  "  she  said  at  last,  with 
her  eyebrows  distressingly  high. 

"  What  ?  "  said  Rotha.  "  My  coming  ?  I  am 
sorry,  aunt  Serena;  as  sorry  as  you  can  be.  Is  my 
being  here  particularly  inconvenient  just  at  this 
time?" 

"  Yes ! "  said  Mrs.  Busby,  with  the  same  deeply 
corisiderative  air.  "I  am  thinking  what  will  be 
the  best  way  to  manage.  We  have  a  plan  of  go- 
ing to  Chicago — Mr.  Busby's  family  is  mostly 
there,  and  he  wants  us  to  visit  them;  we  should 
be  gone  all  June  and  part  of  July,  for  I  know  Mr. 
Busby  wants  to  go  further,  if  once  he  gets  so  far; 
and  we  may  not  be  back  till  the  end  of  July.  I 
don't  know  what  to  do  with  Rotha." 

Not  a  word  of  this  plan  had  Antoinette  ever 
heard  before,  but  she  kept  wise  silence;  only  her 
small  blue  eyes  sparkled  knowingly  at  the  fire. 
Rotha  was  silent  too  at  first,  with  vexation. 

"  I  am  very  sorry — "  she  repeated. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Busby.  "I  thought  I  could 
leave  you  in  safe  quarters  with  Mrs.  Mowbray  for 
a  week  or  two  after  school  broke  up ;  now  that  pos- 


A  CHANGE.  481 

sibility  is  out  of  the  question.  Well,  we  will 
sleep  upon  it.  Never  mind,  Kotha;  don't  trouble 
yourself.  I  shall  find  some  way  out  of  the  diffi- 
culty. I  always  do." 

These  words  were  spoken  with  so  much  kindness 
of  tone  that  they  quite  comforted  Rotha  as  to  the 
immediate  annoyance  of  being  in  the  way.  She 
went  up  to  her  little  third-story  room,  threw  open  the 
blinds,  to  let  the  stars  look  in,  and  remembered  that 
neither  she  nor  yet  her  aunt  Busby  was  the  guide 
of  her  fortunes.  Yet,  yet, — what  a  hard  change 
this  was !  All  the  pursuits  in  which  she  had  taken 
such  delight,  suddenly  stopped;  her  peaceful  home 
lost;  her  best  friend  separated  from  her.  It  was 
difficult  to  realize  the  fact  that  God  knew  and 
had  allowed  it.  Yet  no  harm,  no  real  harm, 
comes  to  his  children,  unless  they  bring  it  upon 
themselves;  so  this  change  could  not  mean  harm. 
How  could  it  mean  good?  Sense  saw  not,  rea- 
son could  not  divine;  but  faith  said  "yes";  and 
in  the  quietness  of  that  confidence  Rotha  went  to 
sleep. 

At  breakfast  the  ladies'  faces  had  regained  their 
wonted  brightness. 

"  I  have  settled  it  all !  "  Mrs.  Busby  announced, 
when  her  husband  had  left  the  breakfast  table  and 
the  room.  Rotha  looked  up  and  waited;  Antoi- 
nette did  not  look  up;  therefore  it  may  be  pre- 
sumed she  knew  what  was  coming. 

"  I  am  going  to  send  Rotha  to  the  country  while 
we  are  gone." 


482  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Where  in  the  country  ?  "  asked  the  person  most 
concerned. 

"  To  my  place  in  the  country — my  place  at  Tan- 
field.  I  have  a  place  in  the  country." — Mrs.  Bus- 
by spoke  with  a  very  alert  and  pleased  air. 

"  Tanfield —  "  Rotha  repeated  with  slow  recollec- 
tion. "01  believe  I  know.  I  think  I  have  heard 
of  Tanfield." 

"Of  course.  It  is  the  old  place  where  I  lived 
when  I  was  a  girl;  and  a  lovely  place  it  is." 

"And  just  think!"  put  in  Antoinette.  "Isn't  it 
funny  ?  I  have  never  seen  it." 

"  Who  is  there  ?  "  Rotha  asked. 

"0  the  old  house  is  there,  and  the  garden;  and 
somebody  who  will  make  you  very  comfortable.  I 
will  take  care  that  she  makes  you  comfortable. 
I  shall  see  about  that." 

"Who  is  that?  old  Janet?"  asked  Antoinette. 

"No.     Janet  is  not  there ?" 

"Who  then,  mamma?" 

"  Persons  whom  I  have  put  in  charge." 

"  Do  I  know  them  ?  " 

"  You  know  very  little  about  them — not  enough 
to  talk." 

"Mamma!  As  if  one  couldn't  talk  without 
knowing  about  things!  Who  is  it,  mamma?  I 
want  to  know  who  will  have  the  care  of  Kotha." 

"  It  is  not  necessary  you  should  know  at  present. 
Rotha  can  tell  you,  when  she  has  tried  them." 

"I  suppose  I  shall  have  the  care  of  myself," 
said  Rotha;  to  whom  all  this  dialogue  somehow 


A  CHANGE.  483 

sounded  unpromising.  To  her  remark  no  answer 
was  made. 

"  Mamma,  what  will  Eotha  do  there,  all  by  her- 
self?" 

"  She  will  have  people  all  round  her." 

"  She  don't  know  them.  You  mean  the  Tan- 
field  people?" 

"Who  else  should  live  at  Tanfield.  I  was  one 
of  the  Tanfield  people  myself  once." 

"What  sort  of  people  are  they,  mamma?" 

"Excellent  people." 

"Country  people! — " 

"Country  people  can  be  a  very  good  sort.  You 
need  not  sneer  at  them." 

"I  remark  that  you' have  not  been  anxious  to  go 
back  and  see  them,  mamma." 

Rotha  was  dumb  meanwhile,  and  during  a  longer 
continuance  of  this  sort  of  talk;  with  a  variety  of 
feelings  at  work  in  her,  among  which  crept  a  cer- 
tain flavouring  of  suspicion.  Was  she  to  be  alone 
in  her  mother's  old  home  at  Tanfield  ?  Alone,  with 
companions  that  could  not  be  companions?  Was 
it  any  use  to  question  her  aunt  further?  She 
feared  not;  yet  the  questions  would  come. 

"What  sort  of  persons  are  those  in  the  house, 
aunt  Serena  ?  " 

"Quite  sufficient  to  take  good  care  of  you.  A 
man  and  his  wife.  Honest  people,  and  kind." 

"Servants!" 

"In  so  far  as  they  are  serving  me." 

Antoinette  again  pressed  to  be  told  who  they 


484  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

were,  was  again  put  off.  From  the  little  alterca- 
tion resulting,  Mrs.  Busby  turned  to  Botha  with  a 
new  theme. 

"You  will  not  want  your  New  York  wardrobe 
there, — what  will  you  do  ?  Leave  your  trunk  here  ? 
That  will  be  best,  I  think,  till  you  come  back  again." 

"0  no,"  said  Rotha  hastily.  "I  will  take  it 
with  me." 

"You  will  not  want  it,  my  dear.  Summer  is 
just  here;  what,  you  need  up  there  is  some  nice 
calico  dresses;  those  will  be  just  the  thing.  I  will 
get  some  for  you  this  very  day,  and  have  them  cut 
out;  and  then  you  can  take  them  and  make  them 
up.  It  will  give  you  something  to  do.  Your  win- 
ter wardrobe  would  be  of  no  service  to  you  there, 
and  to  carry  it  back  and  forward  would  be  merely 
trouble  and  risk." 

"To  leave  it  here  would  be  risk." 

"  Not  at  all.  There  will  be  somebody  in  charge 
of  the  house." 

"I  prefer  to  have  the  charge  of  my  own  clothes 
myself." 

"  My  dear,  I  am  not  going  to  take  it  from  you ; 
only  to  guard  the  things  for  you  while  you  are 
away.  They  would  be  out  of  place  in  the  summer 
and  at  Tanfield." 

"  Some  would ;  but  they  are  all  mixed  up,"  said 
Rotha,  trying  to  keep  her  patience,  though  the  blood 
mounted  into  her  cheeks  dangerously. 

"They  can  be  separated,"  said  Mrs.  Busby  coolly. 
"When  your  trunks  come,  I  will  do  that  for  you." 


A  CHANGE.  485 

Not  if  I  am  alive!  thought  Rotha;  but  she  re- 
membered the  old  word — "If  it  be  possible,  as  much 
as  lieth  in  you,  live  peaceably — "  and  she  held  her 
tongue.  However,  later  in  the  day  when  Mrs. 
Busby  came  in  after  buying  the  calicos,  the  prop- 
osition was  renewed.  She  came  to  Rotha  and  de- 
manded the  keys  of  the  boxes. 

"Thank  you,  aunt  Serena — I  would  rather  do 
what  I  want  done,  myself." 

"Very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Busby  pleasantly;  "but 
if  you  will  give  me  the  keys,  I  will  see  what  I  think 
ought  to  be  done.  I  can  judge  better  than  you  can." 

"  I  would  rather  not,"  said  Rotha.  "  If  you  please, 
and  if  you  do  not  mind,  ma'am,  I  would  rather  no- 
body went  into  my  trunk  but  myself." 

"Don't  be  a  child,  Rotha!" 

"No,  aunt  Serena.  I  remember  that  I  am  one 
no  longer." 

"But  I  wish  to  have  your  keys — do  you  under- 
stand?" 

"Perfectly;  and  I  do  not  wish  to  give  them. 
You.  understand  that." 

"Your  wish  ought  to  give  way  to  mine,"  said 
Mrs.  Busby  severely. 

"Why?"  said  Rotha,  looking  at  her  with  a  frank 
face. 

"Because  you  are  under  my  care,  and  I  stand  in 
the  place  of  a  mother  to  you." 

Hot  words  sprang  to  Rotha's  lips,  hot  and  pas- 
sionate words  of  denial ;  but  she  did  not  speak  them ; 
her  lips  opened  and  closed  again. 


48C  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"Do  you  refuse  me?"  Mrs.  Busby  asked,  after 
waiting  a  moment. 

"  Entirely ! "  said  Kotha  looking  up  again. 

"  Then  you  defy  me !  " 

"  No,  I  mean  nothing  of  the  kind.  You  are  ask- 
ing a  thing  which  no  one  has  a  right. to  ask.  I 
am  simply  holding  my  rights;  which  I  will  do." 

"So  shall  I  hold  mine,"  said  Mrs.  Busby  shortly; 
"and  you  do  not  seem  to  know  what  they  are. 
Your  trunk  will  not  leave  this  house;  you  may 
make  such  arrangements  as  it  pleases  you.  And  I 
shall  give  myself  no  further  trouble  about  one  who 
is  careless  what  annoyance  she  makes  me.  I  had 
intended  to  accompany  you  myself  and  see  you 
comfortably  settled;  but  it  appears  that  nothing  I 
could  do  would  be  of  any  pleasure  to  you.  I 
shall  let  you  go  without  me  and  make  your  own 
arrangements." 

With  which  speech  Mrs.  Busby  ended  the  inter- 
view ;  and  Kotha  was  left  to  think  what  she  would 
do  next. 

Her  trunk  must  be  left  behind.  It  was  too  plain 
that  here  power  was  on  the  side  of  her  aunt.  With- 
out coming  to  downright  fighting,  this  point  could 
not  be  carried  against  her.  Kotha  longed  to  go 
and  talk  to  Mrs.  Mowbray ;  alas,  that  was  not  to 
be  thought  of.  Mrs.  Mowbray's  hands  and  head 
were  full,  and  her  house  was  a  forbidden  place. 
How  swiftly  circumstances  can  whirl  about  in  this 
world !  Yesterday  a  refuge,  to-day  a  danger.  Ro- 
tha  must  leave  her  trunk.  But  many  things  in  it 


A  CHANGE.  487 

she  must  not  leave.  What  to  do  ?  I  will  not  deny 
that  her  thoughts  were  bitter  for  a  while.  A  lit- 
tle matter!  Yes,  a  little  matter,  compared  with 
Waterloo  or  Gravelotte ;  but  not  a  little  matter  to 
a  girl  in  every  day  life  and  having  a  girl's  every 
day  liking  for  being  neat  and  feeling  comfortable. 
And  right  is  right;  and  the  infringing  of  right  is 
hard  to  bear,  perhaps  equally  hard,  whether  it  con- 
cerns a  nation's  boundaries  or  a  woman's  wardrobe. 
If  Rotha  had  been  more  experienced,  perhaps  the 
wisdom  of  doing  nothing  would  have  suggested  it- 
self; but  she  was  young  and  did  not  know  what  to 
do.  So  she  laid  out  of  her  trunk  certain  things; 
her  Bible  and  Scripture  Treasury ;  her  writing  ma- 
terials ;  her  underclothes ;  and  her  gloves.  If  Ro- 
tha had  a  weakness,  it  was  for  neat  and  suitable 
gloves.  The  rest  of  her  belongings  she  locked  up 
carefully,  and  sat  down  to  await  the  course  of 
events. 

It  was  swift,  as  some  intuition  told  her  it  would 
be.  There  was  no  more  disputing.  Mrs.  Busby 
let  the  subject  of  the  trunk  drop,  and  was  as  be- 
nign as  usual;  which  was  never  benign  except 
exteriorly.  She  was  as  good  as  her  word  in  pur- 
chasing calicos ;  brought  home  what  seemed  to  Ro- 
tha an  unnecessary  stock  of  them ;  and  that  after- 
noon and  the  next  day  kept  a  dress-maker  cutting 
and  basting,  and  Rotha  at  work  to  help.  These 
cut  and  basted  dresses,  as  they  were  finished,  Mrs. 
Busby  stowed  with  her  own  hands  in  a  little  old 
leather  trunk.  Then,  when  the  last  one  went  in, 


488  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

she  told  Rotha  to  bring  whatever  she  wished  to 
have  go  with  her. 

"  To  put  in  that  ?  "  Rotha  asked. 

"  Certainly.     It  will  hold  all  you  want." 

Rotha  struggled  with  herself  with  the  feeling 
of  desperate  indignation  which  came  over  her; 
struggled,  grew  red  and  grew  pale,  but  finally  did 
go  without  another  word ;  and  brought  down,  pile 
by  pile,  her  neat  under  wardrobe.  Mrs.  Busby 
packed  and  packed.  Her  trunk  was  leather,  and 
strong,  but  its  capacities  were  bounded  by  that 
very  strength. 

"  All  these ! "  she  exclaimed  in  a  sort  of  despair. 
"There  is  no  use  whatever  in  having  so  much 
linen  under  wear." 

Rotha  was  silent. 

"  It  is  much  better  to  have  fewer  things,  and  let 
them  be  washed  as  often  as  necessary.  A  family 
would  want  a  caravan  at  this  rate." 

"  This  is  Mrs.  Mowbray's  way,"  said  Rotha. 

"  Mrs.  Mowbray's  way  is  not  a  way  to  be  copied, 
unless  you  are  a  millionaire.  She  is  the  most  ex- 
travagant woman  I  ever  met,  without  exception." 

"  But  aunt  Serena,  it  costs  no  more  in  the  end, 
whether  you  have  a  dozen  things  for  two  years, 
and  comfort,  or  half  a  dozen  a  year,  and  discomfort." 

"You  don't  know  that  you  will  live  two  years 
to  want  them." 

"  You  don't  know  that  you  will  live  one,  for  that 
matter,"  said  Antoinette,  who  always  spoke  her 
mind,  careless  whom  the  words  touched.  "  At  that 


A  CHANGE.  489 

rate,  mamma,  we  ought  to  do  like  savages, — have 
one  dress  and  wear  it  out  before  getting  another; 
but  it  strikes  me  that  would  be  rather  disagreeable." 

"  You  will  not  find  anybody  at  Tanfield  to  do  all 
this  washing  for  you,"  Mrs.  Busby  went  on. 

"  I  shall  have  no  more  washing  done  than  if  I 
had  fewer  things,"  Kotha  said. 

"Then  there  is  no  sort  of  use  in  lugging  all 
these  loads  of  linen  up  there  just  to  bring  them 
back  again.  The  trunk  will  not  hold  them.  Here, 
Rotha — take  back  these, — and  these,  and  these — " 

Eotha  received  them  silently;  silently  carried 
them  up  stairs  and  came  down  for  more.  She  was 
in  a  kind  of  despair.  Her  Bible  and  most  precious 
belongings  she  had  put  carefully  in  her  travelling 
bag,  rejoicing  in  its  beauty  and  security. 

"Mamma,"  said  Antoinette  now,  "does  Eotha 
know  when  she  is  going  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"  Well,  that's  funny.  I  should  think  you  would 
tell  her.  Why  it's  almost  time  for  her  to  put  on 
her  bonnet." 

Botha's  eyes  went  from  one  to  the  other.  She 
was  startled. 

"  I  am  going  to  send  you  off  by  the  night  train 
to  Tanfield," — Mrs.  Busby  said  without  looking  up 
from  the  trunk. 

"  The  night  train  !  "  exclaimed  Kotha. 

"It  is  the  best  you  can  do.  It  brings  you  there 
by  daylight.  The  night  train  is  as  pleasant  as 
any." 


490  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  If  you  have  company  " — said  Rotha. 

"And  if  the  cars  don't  run  off  nor  anything," 
added  Antoinette.  "  All  the  awful  accidents  hap- 
pen in  the  night." 

"I  would  not  have  Rotha  go  alone,"  said  Mrs. 
Busby  grimly ;  "  but  she  don't  want  my  com- 
panionship." 

Rotha  would  have  been  glad  of  it;  however,  she 
did  not  say  so.  She  stood  confounded.  What  pos- 
sible need  of  this  haste  ? 

"  Put  your  things  away,  Rotha,''  said  Mrs.  Busby 
glancing  up, — "  and  come  down  to  dinner.  You 
must  leave  at  seven  o'clock,  and  I  have  had  dinner 
early  for  you." 

The  dinner  being  early,  Mr.  Busby  was  not 
there ;  which  Rotha  regretted.  From  him  she 
hoped  for  at  least  one  of  his  dry,  sensible  remarks, 
and  possibly  a  hint  of  sympathy.  She  must  go 
without  it.  Dinner  had  no  taste,  and  the  talk  that 
went  on  no  meaning.  Very  poor  as  this  home  was, 
it  was  better  than  an  unknown  country,  and  un- 
congenial as  were  her  companions,  she  preferred 
them  to  nobody.  Gradually  there  grew  a  lump  in 
her  throat  which  almost  choked  her. 

Meantime  she  was  silent,  seemed  to  eat,  and  did 
quietly  whatever  she  was  told  She  put  up  sand- 
wiches in  a  paper;  accepted  an  apple  and  some 
figs;  looked  curiously  at  the  old  basement  dining 
room,  which  she  had  never  liked,  but  which  had 
never  seemed  to  her  so  comfortable  as  now ;  and  at 
last  left  it  to  get  herself  ready.  Taking  her  Russia 


A  CHANGE.  491 

bag  in  her  hand,  she  seemed  to  grasp  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray's  love ;  and  it  comforted  her. 

Her  aunt  and  she  had  a  silent  drive  through  the 
streets,  already  dark  and  lamp-lit.  All  necessary 
directions  were  given  her  by  the  way,  and  a  little 
money  to  pay  for  her  drive  out  from  Tanfield. 
Then  came  the  confusion  of  the  Station — not  the 
Grand  Central  by  any  means ;  the  bustle  of  getting 
her  seat  in  the  cars;  her  aunt's  cold  kiss.  And 
then  she  was  alone,  and  the  engine  sounded  its 
whistle,  and  the  train  slowly  moved  away  into  the 
darkness. 

For  a  while  Rotha's  mind  was  in  a  tumult  of 
confusion.  If  Mrs.  Mowbray  knew  where  she  was 
at  that  minute !  She  had  had  no  chance  to  write 
to  her.  If  she  only  knew !  What  then  ?  she  could 
not  help  matters.  0  but  she  could!  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray  could  always  find  help.  Love  that  would  not 
rest,  energy  that  would  not  tire,  a  power  of  will 
that  would  not  be  denied,  and  a  knowledge  and 
command  of  men  and  things  which  enabled  her 
always  to  lay  her  hand  on  the  right  means  and 
apply  them;  all  this  belonged  to  Mrs.  Mowbray, 
and  made  her  the  most  efficient  of  helpers.  But 
just  now,  doubtless,  the  affairs  of  her  own  house 
laid  full  claim  to  all  her  energies;  and  then,  she 
did  not  know  about  Rotha's  circumstances.  How 
strange,  thought  Rotha,  that  she  does  not  • — that 
things  should  have  come  together  so  that  she  can- 
not! I  seem  to  be  cut  off  designedly  from  her, 
and  from  everybody. 


492  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

There  crept  slowly  into  her  heart  the  recollec- 
tion that  there  was  One  who  did  know  the  whole; 
and  if  there  were  design  in  the  peculiar  collocation 
of  events,  as  who  could  doubt,  it  was  His  design. 
This  gave  a  new  view  of  things.  Rotha  looked 
round  on  the  dingy  car,  dingy  because  so  dimly 
lighted;  filled,  partly  filled,  with  dusky  figures; 
and  wondered  if  one  there  were  so  utterly  alone  as 
she,  and  marvelled  greatly  why  she  had  been 
brought  into  such  a  strange  position.  Separated 
from  everything!  Then  her  Russia  bag  rebuked 
her,  for  her  Bible  was  in  it.  Not  separated  from 
God,  whose  message  was  there ;  perhaps,  who 
knows  ?  she  was  to  come  closer  to  him,  in  the  de- 
fault of  all  other  friends.  She  remembered  the 
words  of  a  particular  psalm  which  not  long  ago 
had  been  read  at  morning  prayers  and  com- 
mented on  by  Mrs.  Mowbray;  it  came  home  to 
her  now. 

"  I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills,  from 
whence  cometh  my  help.  My  help  cometh  from 
the  Lord,  who  made  heaven  and  earth." 

If  he  made  heaven  and  earth,  he  surely  can 
manage  them.  And  Mrs.  Mowbray  had  said,  that 
whoever  could  honestly  adopt  and  say  those  first 
words  of  the  psalm,  might  take  to  himself  also  all 
the  following.  Then  how  it  went  on ! — 

"He  will  not  suffer  thy  foot  to  be  moved;  he 
that  keepeth  thee  will  not  slumber.  Behold, 
he  that  keepeth  Israel  shall  neither  slumber  nor 
sleep." 


A  CHANGE.  493 

The  tears  rushed  into  Rotha's  eyes.  So  he  would 
watch  the  night  train  in  which  she  journeyed,  and 
let  no  harm  come  to  it  without  his  pleasure.  The 
words  followed, — 

"The  Lord  is  thy  keeper:  the  Lord  is  thy  shade 
upon  thy  right  hand;  the  sun  shall  not  smite  thee 
by  day,  nor  the  moon  by  night.  The  Lord  shall 
preserve  thee  from  all  evil,  he  shall  preserve  thy 
soul.  The  Lord  shall  preserve  thy  going  out  and 
thy  coming  in,  from  this  time  forth,  and  even  for 
evermore." 

It  was  to  Rotha  as  if  she  had  suddenly  seen  a 
guard  of  angels  about  her.  Nay,  better  than  that. 
She  was  a  young  disciple  yet,  she  had  not  learned 
all  the  ins  and  outs  of  faith;  but  this  night  her 
journey  was  sweet  to  her.  The  train  rumbled 
along  through  the  darkness;  but  "darkness  and 
the  light  are  alike  to  him,"  she  remembered.  Now 
and  then  the  cars  stopped  at  a  village  or  wayside 
station ;  and  a  few  lights  shone  upon  boards  and 
platforms  and  bits  of  wall ;  sometimes  shone  from 
within  a  saloon  where  refreshments  were  set  out; 
there  were  switches  to  be  turned  on  or  off;  there 
was  a  turn-out  place  where  the  train  waited  three 
quarters  of  an  hour  for  the  down  train.  All  the 
same !  Rotha  remembered  that  switches  and  turn- 
outs made  no  manner  of  difference,  no  more  than 
the  darkness,  if  the  Lord  was  keeping  her.  It  was 
somehow  a  sweet  kind  of  a  night  that  she  had; 
not  alone  nor  unhappy;  faith,  for  the  moment 
at  least,  laying  its  grasp  on  the  whole  wide  realm 


494  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

of  promise  and  resting  satisfied  and  quiet  in 
its  possessions.  After  a  while  she  slept  and 
dozed,  waking  up  occasionally  to  feel  the  rush 
and  hear  the  rumble  of  the  cars,  to  remember 
in  whose  hand  she  was,  and  then  quietly  to 
doze  off  again. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

TANFIELD. 

THE  last  time  she  awoke,  the  rush  and  the  roar 
had  ceased;  the  train  was  standing  still  in 
the  darkness.  Not  utterly  in  the  dark,  for  one  or 
two  miserable  lamps  were  giving  a  feeble  illumi- 
nation ;  and  there  was  a  stir  and  a  hum  of  voices. 
Another  station,  evidently.  "What  is  it?"  she 
asked  somebody  passing  her. 

"Tanfield."   ' 

Tanfield !  and  this  darkness  still.  "  What  o'clock 
is  it,  please  ? "  she  asked  the  conductor,  who  just 
•  then  appeared. 

"  Three  o'clock  in  the  morning.  You  stop  here, 
don't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  how  can  I  get  to  the  hotel  ?  " 

"  It's  just  by ;  not  a  dozen  steps  off.  Here,  give 
me  your  bag — I'll  see  you  there.  We  don't  go  on ; 
change  cars,  for  whoever  wants  to  go  further. 
You  don't  go  further  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Then  come  on." 

Half  awake,  and  dazed,  Rotha  gratefully  fol- 
lowed her  companion;  who  piloted  the  way  for 
(495) 


496  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

her  out  of  the  train  and  through  the  station  house 
and  across  a  street,  or  road  rather,  for  it  was  not 
paved.  A  hotel  of  some  pretension  faced  them  on 
the  other  side  of  the  street.  The  kind  conductor 
marched  in  like  one  at  home,  sent  for  the  sleepy 
chambermaid,  and  consigned  Rotha  to  her  care. 

"  You  would  like  a  room  and  a  bed,  ma'am  ?  " 

"A  room,  yes,  and  water  to  wash  the  dust  off; 
but  I  do  not  want  a  bed.  How  early  can  you  give 
me  breakfast?" 

"  Breakfast  ?  there's  always  breakfast  full  early, 
ma'am,  for  the  train  that  goes  out  at  half  past  six. 
You'll  get  breakfast  then.  Going  by  the  half  past 
six  train,  ma'am?" 

"  No.  I  shall  want  some  sort  of  a  carriage  by 
and  by,  to  drive  me  out  to  Mrs.  Busby's  place;  do 
you  know  where  that  is?  And  can  1  get  a  car- 
riage here  ?  " 

"  You  can  get  carriages  enough.  I  don't  know 
about  no  places.  Then  you'll  take  breakfast  at 
six,  ma'am  ?  You'll  be  called." 

With  which  she  shewed  Rotha  into  a  bare  little 
hotel  room,  lit  a  lamp,  and  left  her. 

Rotha  refreshed  herself  with  cold  water  and  put 
her  hair  in  order.  It  must  be  half  past  three  then. 
She  went  to  the  window,  pulled  up  the  shade  and 
opened  the  sash  and  sat  down.  At  half  past  three 
in  the  morning,  when  the  season  is  no  further  ad- 
vanced than  May,  the  world  is  still  nearly  dark. 
Yet  two  cocks  were  answering  each  other  from  dif- 
ferent roosts  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  announcing 


TANFIELD.  497 

that  morning  was  on  its  way.  The  sky  gave  little 
token  yet,  however;  and  the  stars  sparkled  silently 
out  of  its  dark  depths.  The  rush  and  the  roar  of 
the  train,  and  of  life  itself,  seemed  to  be  left  be- 
hind; the  air  had  the  fresh  sweetness  which  it 
never  can  have  where  human  beings  do  greatly 
congregate;  there  was  a  spice  in  it  which  Eotha 
had  not  tasted  for  a  long  while.  That  sort  of  spice 
is  enlivening  and  refreshing;  there  is  a  good  tonic 
in  it,  which "Kotha  felt  and  enjoyed;  at  the  same 
time  it  warned  her  she  was  in  new  circumstances. 
She  had  an  uneasy  suspicion,  or  intuition  rather, 
that  these  new  circumstances  were  not  intended, 
so  far  as  her  aunt's  intentions  affected  them,  to  be 
of  transient  duration.  It  was  all  very  well  to  talk 
of  July  or  the  beginning  of  August;  truth  has  a 
way  of  making  itself  known  independent  of  words 
and  even  athwart  them;  and  so  it  had  been  now; 
and  while  Mrs.  Busby  talked  of  the  middle  of  sum- 
mer, some  subtle  sense  in  Rotha's  nature  translated 
the  words  and  made  them  signify  an  indefinite  and 
distant  future,  almost  as  uncertain  as  indefinite. 
Rotha  could  not  help  feeling  that  it  might  be  long 
before  she  saw  New  York  or  Mrs.  Mowbray  again ; 
and  anew  the  wondering  thought  arose,  why  Mrs. 
Mowbray  should  have  been  incapacitated  for  help- 
ing her  precisely  at  this  -juncture  ?  It  was  myste- 
rious. It  was  evident  that  a  higher  rule  than  Mrs. 
Busby's  was  taking  effect  here;  it  was  plain  that  not 
her  aunt  alone  had  willed  to  put  her  away  from 
all  she  trusted  and  delighted  in,  and  bring  her  to 


498  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

this  strange  place;  where  she  would  be  utterly 
alone  and  uncared-for  and  shut  off  from  all  her  be- 
loved pursuits.  But  why  ? 

It  is  the  vainest  of  questions ;  yet  one  which  in 
such  circumstances  mortals  are  terribly  tempted  to 
ask.  If  they  could  be  told,  then,  the  design  of  the 
movement  would  be  lost  upon  their  mental  and 
spiritual  education ;  and  ten  to  one  the  ulterior  de- 
velopments would  be  hindered  also  which  are 
meant  to  turn  to  their  temporal  advantage.  It  is 
in  the  nature  of  things,  that  the  "  why  "  should  be 
hidden  in  darkness ;  without  being  omniscient  we 
cannot  see  beforehand  the  turns  that  things  will 
take;  and  so  now  is  Faith's  time  to  be  quiet  and 
trust  and  believe.  And  somehow  faith  is  apt  to 
find  it  hard  work.  Most  of  us  know  what  it  is  to 
trust  a  human  fellow  creature  absolutely,  implic- 
itly; with  so  full  a  trust  that  we  are  not  afraid 
nor  doubtful  nor  unwilling;  but  with  one  hand 
in  the  trusted  one's  hand  are  ready  to  go  blindly 
anywhere,  or  to  dare  or  to  do  gladly,  counting  with 
certainty  that  there  is  no  hazard  about  it.  So 
children  can  trust  their  father  or  their  mother;  so 
friends  and  lovers  can  trust  one  another.  But  it 
is  very  hard,  somehow,  to  trust  God  so.  Precisely 
such  trust  is  what  he  wants  of  us;  but — we  do 
not  know  him  well  enough!  "They  that  know 
thy  name  will  put  their  trust  in  thee"  Yet  it  is 
rare,  rare,  to  find  a  Christian  who  can  use  Faber's 
words — 


TANFIELD.  499 

"I  know  not  what  it  is  to  doubt; 

My  mind  is  ever  gay; 
I  run  no  risk,  for  come  what  will, 
Thou  always  hast  thy  way." 

Rotha  at  any  rate  had  not  got  so  far.  Her  mind 
was  in  a  troubled  state,  as  she  sat  at  the  window  of 
the  Tanfield  hotel  and  stared  out  into  the  dewy  dusk 
of  the  morning.  It  was  indignant  besides;  and 
that  is  a  very  disturbing  element  in  one's  moods. 
She  felt  wronged,  and  she  felt  helpless.  The  sweet 
trust  of  the  night  seemed  to  have  deserted  her.  A 
weary  sense  of  loneliness  and  forlornness  came  in- 
stead, and  at  last  found  its  safest  expression  in  a 
good  hearty  fit  of  weeping.  That  washed  off  some 
of  the  dust  from  her  tired  spirit. 

When  she  raised  her  head  again  and  looked  out, 
the  dawn  was  really  coming  up  in  the  sky.  Things 
were  changed.  There  was  a  sweeter  breath  in  the 
air;  there  was  an  indefinable  stir  of  life  in  all  na- 
ture. The  grey  soft  light  was  putting  out  the 
stars;  the  tops  of  the  trees  swayed  gently  in  a 
morning  breeze;  scents  came  fresher  from  flowers 
and  fields ;  scents  so  rarely  spicy  and  fragi-ant  as 
dwellers  in  towns  never  know  them,  as  all  towns 
of  men's  building  banish  them.  Birds  were  twit- 
tering, cocks  were  crowing;  and  soon  a  stir  of  hu- 
manity began  to  make  itself  known  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood; a  soft,  vague  stir  and  movement  telling 
of  the  awaking  to  life  and  business  and  a  new  day. 
Feet  passed  along  the  corridor  within  doors,  and 
doors  opened  and  shut,  voices  sounded  here  and 


500  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

there,  horses  neighed,  dogs  barked.  Rotha  sat 
still,  looking,  watching,  listening,  with  a  growing 
spring  of  life  and  hope  in  herself  answering  to  the 
movement  without  her.  And  then  the  light  broad- 
ened; dusky  forms  began  to  take  colour;  the  east- 
ern sky  grew  bright,  and  the  sun  rose. 

Now  Rotha  could  see  about  her.  She  was  in  a 
well-built  village.  Well-to-do  looking  house  tops 
appeared  between  the  leafy  heads  of  trees  that  were 
much  more  than  "well-to-do";  that  were  luxuriant, 
large,  and  old,  and  rich  in  their  growth  and  thriv- 
ing. The  road  Rotha  could  not  see  from  her  window ; 
however,  what  she  did  see  shewed  that  the  place 
was  built  according  to  the  generous  roomy  fashion 
of  New  England  villages ;  the  houses  standing  well 
apart,  with  gardens  and  trees  around  and  between 
them;  and  furthermore  there  was  an  inevitable 
character  of  respectability  and  comfort  apparent 
everywhere.  Great  round  elm  heads  rose  upon  her 
horizon;  and  the  roof  trees  which  they  shadowed 
were  evidently  solid  and  substantial.  This  town, 
to  be  sure,  was  not  Rotha's  place  of  abode ;  yet  she 
might  fairly  hope  to  find  that,  when  she  got  to  it, 
of  the  like  character. 

She  sat  at  the  window  almost  moveless,  until  she 
was  called  to  her  early  breakfast.  It  was  spread 
in  a  very  large  hall-like  room,  where  small  tables 
stood  in  long  rows,  allowing  people  to  take  their 
rneals  in  a  sort  by  themselves.  Rotha  placed  her- 
self at  a  distance  from  all  the  other  persons  who 
were  breakfasting  there,  and  was  comfortably  alone. 


TANFIELD.  501 

She  never  forgot  that  meal  in  all  her  life.  She 
wanted  it;  that  was  one  thing;  she  was  faint  and 
tired,  with  her  night  journey  and  her  morning 
watch.  The  place  was  brilliantly  clean;  the  ser- 
vice rendered  by  neat  young  women,  who  went 
back  and  forth  to  a  room  in  the  rear  whence  the 
eatables  were  issued.  And  very  excellent  they 
were,  albeit  not  in  the  least  reminding  one  of  Del- 
monico's;  if  Delmonico  had  at  that  day  existed  to 
let  anybody  remember  him.  No  doubt,  it  might 
have  been  difficult  to  guess  where  the  coffee  was 
grown ;  but  it  was  well  made  and  hot  and  served 
with  good  milk  and  cream;  and  Rotha  was  ex- 
hausted and  hungry.  The  coffee  was  simply  nec- 
tar. The  corn  bread  was  light  and  sweet  and  ten- 
der; the  baked  potatoes  were  perfect;  the  butter 
was  good,  and  the  ham,  and  the  apple  sauce,  and 
the  warm  biscuit.  There  was  a  pleasant  sensation 
of  independence  and  being  alone,  as  Rotha  sat  at 
her  little  table  in  the  not  very  brightly  lit  room ; 
and  it  seemed  as  if  strength  and  courage  came 
back  to  her  heart  along  with  the  refitting  of  her 
physical  nature.  She  was  not  in  a  hurry  to  finish 
her  breakfast.  The  present  moment  was  pleasant, 
and  afforded  a  kind  of  lull;  after  it  must  come  ac- 
tion, and  action  would  plunge  her  into  she  could  not 
tell  what.  The  lull  came  to  an  end  only  too  soon. 

"  Do  you  know  where  Mrs.  Busby's  place  is  ? " 
she  inquired  of  the  girl  that  served  her. 

"  Place  ?     No,  I  don't.     Is  it  in  Tanfield  ?  " 

"  It  is  near  Tanfield." 


502  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  You  are  not  going  by  the  train,  then  ?  " 

"No.  I  am  going  to  this  place.  Can  I  get  a 
carriage  to  take  me  there  ?  " 

"  I'll  ask  Mr.  Jackson." 

Mr.  Jackson  came  up  accordingly,  and  Kotha  re- 
peated her  question.  He  was  a  big,  fat,  comfort- 
able looking  man. 

"  Busby  ?  "  he  said  with  his  hand  on  his  chin — 
"  I  don't  seem  to  recollect  no  Busbys  hereabouts. 
O,  you  mean  the  old  Brett  place  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  believe  I  do.     Mrs.  Busby  owns  it  now." 

"  That's  it.  Mrs.  Busby.  She  was  the  old  gen- 
tleman's daughter.  The  family  aint  lived  here  this 
long  spell." 

"But  there  is  somebody  there?  somebody  in 
charge  ?  " 

"  Likely.  Somebody  to  look  arter  things.  You're 
a  goin'  there  ?  " 

"  If  I  can  get  a  carriage  to  take  me." 

"  Whenll  you  want  it  ?  " 

"  Now.     At  once." 

"There  aint  no  difficulty  about  that,  I  guess. 
Baggage  ? " 

"One  small  trunk." 

"All  right  I'll  have  the  horse  put  to  right 
away." 

So  a  little  before  eight  o'clock  Eotha  found  her- 
self in  a  buggy,  with  her  trunk  behind  her  and  a 
country  boy  beside  her  for  a  driver,  on  the  way  to 
her  aunt's  place. 

Eight  o'clock  of  a  May  morning  is  a  pleasant 


TANFIELD.  503 

time,  especially  when  May  is  near  June.  All  the 
world  was  fresh  and  green  and  dewy;  the  very 
spirit  of  life  in  the  air,  and  the  very  joy  of  life 
too,  for  a  multitude  of  birds  were  filling  it  with 
their  gleeful  melody.  How  they  sang!  and  how 
utterly  perfumed  was  every  breath  that  Rotha 
drew.  She  sniffed  the  air  and  tasted  it,  and 
breathed  in  full  long  breaths  of  it,  and  could  not 
get  enough.  Breathing  such  air,  one  might  put 
up  with  a  good  deal  of  disagreeableness  in  other 
things.  The  country  immediately  around  Tan- 
field  she  found  was  flat ;  in  the  distance  a  chain  of 
low  hills  shut  in  the  horizon,  blue  and  fair  in  the 
morning  light;  but  near  at  hand  the  ground  was 
very  level.  Fields  of  springing  grain;  meadows 
of  lush  pasture ;  orchards  of  apple  trees  just  out  of 
flower;  a  farmhouse  now  and  then,  with  its  com- 
fortable barns  and  outhouses  and  cattle  in  the 
farmyard.  Every  here  and  there  one  or  two  great 
American  elms,  lifting  their  great  umbrella-like 
canopies  over  a  goodly  extent  of  turf.  Barns  and 
houses,  fences  and  gateways,  all  in  order;  nothing 
tumble-down  or  neglected  to  be  seen  anywhere; 
an  universal  look  of  thrift  and  business  and  com- 
fort. The  drive  was  inexpressibly  sweet  to  Rotha, 
with  her  Medwayville  memories  all  stirred  and 
quickened,  and  the  contrast  of  her  later  city  life 
for  so  many  years.  She  half  forgot  what  lay  be- 
hind her  and  what  might  be  before;  and  with  her 
healthy  young  spirit  lived  heartily  in  the  present. 
The  drive  however  was  not  very  long. 


504  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

At  the  end  of  two  miles  the  driver  stopped  and 
got  down  before  a  white  gate  enclosed  in  thick 
shrubbery.  Nothing  was  to  be  seen  but  the  gate 
and  the  green  leafage  of  trees  and  shrubs  on  each 
side  of  it.  The  boy  opened  the  gate,  led  his  horse 
in,  shut  the  gate  behind  him,  then  jumped  up  to 
his  seat  and  drove  on  rapidly.  The  road  curved  in 
a  semi-circle  from  that  gate  to  another  at  some  dis- 
tance further  along  the  road;  and  midway,  at  the 
point  most  distant  from  the  road,  stood  a  stately 
house.  The  approach  was  bordered  with  beds  of 
flowers  and  shrubbery;  a  thick  hedge  of  trees  and 
shrubs  ran  along  the  fence  that  bordered  the  road 
and  hid  it  from  the  house,  sheltering  the  house 
also  from  the  view  of  passers-by;  and  tall  trees, 
some  of  them  firs,  increased  the  bowery  and  bosky 
effect.  The  house  was  well  shut  in.  And  the 
flower  borders  were  neglected,  and  the  road  not 
trimmed;  so  that  the  impression  was  somewhat 
desolate.  All  windows  and  blinds  and  doors  more- 
over were  close  and  fastened ;  the  look  of  life  was 
entirely  wanting. 

"Is  there  anybody  here?"  said  Rotha,  a  little 
faint  at  heart. 

"  I'll  find  out  if  there  aint,"  said  her  boy  com- 
panion, preparing  to  spring  out  of  the  wagon. 

"  0  give  me  the  reins ! "  cried  Rotha.  "  I'll  hold 
them  while  you  are  gone." 

"  You  can  hold  'em  if  you  like,  but  he  won't  do 
nothin',"  returned  Jehu.  And  dashing  round  the 
corner  of  the  house,  he  left  Eotha  to  her  medita- 


TANFIELD.  505 

tions.  All  was  still,  only  the  birds  were  full  of 
songs  and  pouring  them  out  on  all  sides;  from 
every  tree  and  bush  came  a  warble  or  a  twitter  or 
a  whistle  of  ecstasy.  The  gleeful  tones  half  stole 
into  Rotha's  heart ;  yet  on  the  whole  her  spirit  ther- 
mometer was  sinking.  The  place  had  the  neglect- 
ed air  of  a  place  where  nobody  lives,  and  that  has 
always  a  depressing  effect.  Her  charioteer's  ab- 
sence was  prolonged,  too;  which  of  itself  was  not 
cheering.  At  last  he  came  dashing  round  the  cor- 
ner again. 

"  Guess  it's  all  right,"  he  said.  "  But  you'll  have 
to  git  down,  fur's  I  see;  I  can't  git  you  no  nearer, 
and  she  won't  come  to  the  front  door.  They  don't 
never  open  it,  ye  see.  So  they  says." 

Rotha  descended,  and  bag  in  hand  followed  the 
boy,  who  piloted  her  round  the  corner  of  the  house 
and  along  a  weedy  walk  overhung  with  lilacs  and 
syringas  and  overgrown  rosebushes,  until  they  were 
near  another  corner.  The  house  seemed  to  be 
square  on  the  ground. 

"  There !  "  said  he, — "  you  go  jist  roun'  there,  and 
you'll  see  the  kitchen  door — leastways  the  shed; 
and  so  you'll  git  in.  Mrs.  Purcell  is  there." 

"  Who  is  Mrs.  Purcell  ?  "  said  Rotha  stopping. 

"I  d'n'  know;  she's  the  woman  what  stops  here; 
her  and  Joe  Purcell.  She's  Joe  Purcell's  wife.  I'll 
git  your  trunk  out,  but  you  must  send  some  un 
roun'  to  fetch  it,  you  see." 

Rotha  turned  the  second  corner,  while  the  boy 
went  back;  and  a  few  steps  more  brought  her 


506  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

round  to  the  back  of  the  house,  where  there  was 
a  broad  space  neatly  paved  with  small  cobble 
stones.  An  out-jutting  portion  of  the  building 
faced  her  here,  and  a  door  in  the  sane.  This 
must  be  the  "  shed,"  though  it  had  not  really  that 
character.  Rotha  went  in.  It  seemed  to  be  a 
small  outer  kitchen.  At  the  house  side  an  open 
ladder  of  steps  led  up  to  another  door.  Going  up, 
Rotha  came  into  the  kitchen  proper.  A  fire  was 
burning  in  the  wide  chimney,  and  an  old-fashion ed 
dresser  opposite  held  dishes  and  tins.  Between 
dresser  and  fire  stood  a  woman,  regarding  Rotha 
as  she  came  in  with  a  consideration  which  was 
more  curious  than  gracious.  Rotha  on  her  part 
looked  eagerly  at  her.  She  was  a  tall  woman, 
very  well  formed;  not  very  neatly  dressed,  for  her 
sleeves  were  worn  at  the  elbows,  and  a  strip  torn 
from  her  skirt  and  not  torn  off,  dangled  on  the 
floor.  The  dress  was  of  some  dark  stuff,  too  old 
to  be  of  any  particular  colour.  But  what  struck 
Rotha  immediately  was,  that  the  woman  was  not 
a  white  woman.  Very  light  she  was,  undoubtedly, 
and  of  a  clear  good  colour,  but  she  had  not  the  fair 
tint  of  the  white  races.  Red  shewed  in  her  cheeks, 
through  the  pale  olive  of  them ;  and  her  hair,  black 
and  crinkly,  was  not  crisp  but  long,  and  smoothly 
combed  over  her  temples.  She  was  a  very  hand- 
some woman;  a  fact  which  Rotha  did  not  per- 
ceive at  first,  owing  to  a  dark  scowl  which  drew 
her  eyebrows  together,  and  under  which  her  eyes 
looked  forth  fiery  and  ominous.  They  fixed  the 


TANFIELD.  507 

new-comer  with  a  steady  stare  of  what  seemed 
displeasure. 

"  Good  morning !  "  said  Kotha.  "  Are  you  Mrs. 
Purcell  ?  " 

"  Who  wants  Mrs.  Purcell?  "  was  the  gruff  answer. 

"I  was  told  that  Mrs.  Purcell  is  the  name  of 
the  person  who  lives  here  ?  " 

"  There's  two  folks  lives  here." 

"Yes,"  said  Rotha,  "I  understood  so.  You  and 
your  husband  work  for  Mrs.  Busby,  do  you  not  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  woman  decidedly.  "  Us  don't 
work  for  nobody.  Us  works  for  our  own  selves ; " — 
with  an  accent  on  the  word  "  own." 

"  This  is  Mrs.  Busby's  house  ?  " 

"  Yes,  this  is  her  house,  I  reckon." 

"  And  she  pays  you  for  taking  care  of  it." 

"  Who  told  you  she  does  ?  " 

"Nobody  told  me;  but  I  supposed  it,  of  course." 

"She  don't  pay  nothin'.  Us  pays  her;  that's 
how  it  is.  Us  pays  her,  for  all  us  has;  the  land 
and  the  house  and  all." 

"I  am  Mrs.  Busby's  niece.  Did  she  send  you 
any  word  about  me  ?  " 

"  Sent  Joseph  word — "  said  the  woman  mutter- 
ingly.  "  He  said  as  some  one  was  comin'.  I  sup- 
pose it's  you.  I  mean,  Mr.  Purcell." 

"  Then  you  expected  me.  Did  Mrs.  Busby  tell 
you  what  you  were  to  do  with  me  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  read  the  letter,"  said  the  woman, 
turning  now  from  her  examination  of  Rotha  to 
take  up  her  work,  which  had  been  washing 


508  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

up  her  breakfast  dishes.  "Joseph  didn't  tell  me 
nothin'." 

44 1  suppose  you  know  where  to  put  me,"  said 
Botha,  getting  a  little  out  of  patience.  4'  I  shall 
want  a  room.  Where  is  it  to  be  ?  " 

44 /don'  know,"  said  Mrs.  Purcell,  whose  fingers 
were  flying  among  her  pots  and  dishes  in  a  way 
that  shewed  laziness  was  no  part  of  her  char- 
acter. '4  There  aint  no  room  but  at  the  top  o'  the 
house.  Joseph  and  me  has  the  only  room  that's 
down  stairs.  I  s'pose  you  wouldn't  like  one  o'  the 
parlours.  The  rest  is  all  at  the  top." 

'4  Can  I  go  to  the  parlour  in  the  mean  time,  till 
my  room  is  ready  ? — if  it  is  not  ready." 

44  It  aint  ready.  I  never  heerd  you  was  comin', 
till  last  night.  How  was  I  to  have  the  room 
ready  ?  and  I  don'  know  which  room  it's  to  be." 

44  Then  can  I  go  to  the  parlour  ?  where  is  it  ?  " 

41  It's  all  the  next  floor.  There's  nothin'  but  par- 
lours. You  can  go  there  if  you  like ;  but  they  aiiit 
been  opened  in  a  year.  I  never  was  in  'em  but  once 
or  twice  since  I  lived  here." 

Rotha  was  in  despair.  She  set  her  bag  on  one 
chair  and  placed  herself  on  another,  and  waited. 
This  was  far  worse  even  than  her  fears.  0  if  she 
had  but  a  little  money,  to  buy  this  woman's  civil- 
ity !  perhaps  it  could  be  bought.  But  she  was 
thrown  from  one  dependence  to  another;  and  now 
she  was  come  to  depend  on  this  common  person. 
She  did  not  know  what  more  to  say ;  she  could  not 
do  anything  to  propitiate  her.  She  waited. 


TANFIELD.  509 

"  Have  you  had  any  breakfast  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Pur- 
cell,  after  some  ten  minutes  had  passed  with  no 
sound  but  that  of  her  cups  and  plates  taken  up 
and  set  down.  This  went  on  briskly;  Mrs.  Purcell 
seemed  to  be  an  energetic  worker. 

"  Yes,  thank  you.  I  took  breakfast  at  the  hotel 
in  Taniield." 

"  I  didn't  know  but  I  had  to  cook  breakfast  all 
over  again." 

"  I  will  not  give  you  any  more  trouble  than  I  can 
help — if  you  will  only  give  me  a  room  by  and  by." 

"  There's  nothin'  fur  I  to  give — you  can  pick  and 
choose  in  the  whole  house.  Us  has  only  these 
rooms  down  here;  there's  the  whole  big  barn  of  a 
house  overhead.  Folks  meant  it  to  be  a  grand 
house,  I  s'pose;  it's  big  enough;  but  I  don't  want 
no  more  of  it  than  I  can  take  care  of." 

"You  can  take  care  of  my  room,  I  suppose?" 
said  Eotha. 

The  woman  gave  a  kind  of  grunt,  which  was  nei- 
ther assent  nor  denial,  but  rather  expressed  her  es- 
timation of  the  proposal.  She  went  on  silently  and 
rapidly  with  her  kitchen  work;  putting  up  her 
dishes,  brushing  the  floor,  making  up  the  fire,  put- 
ting on  a  pot  or  two.  Eotha  watched  and  waited 
in  silence  also,  trying  to  be  patient.  Finally  Mrs. 
Purcell  took  down  a  key,  and  addressing  herself  to 
Eotha,  said, 

"  Now  I'm  ready.  If  you  like  to  come,  you  can 
see  what  there  is." 

She  unlocked  a  door  and  led  the  way  up  a  low 


510  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

flight  of  steps.  At  the  top  of  them  another  door  let 
them  out  upon  a  wide  hall.  The  hall  ran  from  one 
side  of  the  house  to  the  other.  With  doors  thrown 
open  to  let  in  the  air  and  light  this  might  have 
been  a  very  pleasant  place;  now  however  it  was 
dark  and  dank  and  chilly,  with  that  dismal  close- 
ness and  rawness  of  atmosphere  which  is  always 
found  in  a  house  long  shut  up.  Doors  on  the  one 
hand  and  on  the  other  hand  opened  into  it,  and 
at  the  end  where  the  two  women  had  entered  it, 
ran  up  a  wide  easy  staircase. 

"Will  you  go  higher  ?"  said  Mrs.  Purcell;  "or 
will  you  have  a  room  here  ?  " 

Rotha  opened  one  of  the  doors.  Light  coming 
scantily  in  through  chinks  in  the  shutters  revealed 
dimly  a  very  large,  very  lofty  apartment,  furnished 
as  a  drawing-room.  She  opened  another  door;  it 
gave  a  repetition  of  the  same  thing,  only  the  colour 
of  the  hangings  and  upholsteries  seemed  to  be  dif- 
ferent. A  third,  and  a  fourth;  they  were  all  alike; 
large,  stately  rooms,  fit  to  hold  a  great  deal  of  com- 
pany, or  to  accommodate  an  exceedingly  numerous 
family  with  sitting  and  dining  and  receiving  rooms. 
The  four  saloons  took  up  the  entire  floor. 

"There  is  no  bedroom  here,"  said  Rotha. 

"The  folks  that  lived  here  didn't  make  no  'count 
o'  sleepin',  I  guess.  They  put  all  the  house  into 
their  parlours.  I  suppose  the  days  was  longer  than 
the  nights,  when  they  was  alive." 

"  But  there  must  be  bedrooms  somewhere  ?  " 

"  You  can  go  up  and  see.     Us  wouldn't  sleep  up 


TANFIELD.  511 

there  for  nothin'.  Us  could  ha'  took  what  we  liked 
when  us  come;  but  1  said  to  Mr.  Purcell, — I  said, — 
I  wasn't  goin'  to  break  my  back  runnin'  up  and 
down  stairs;  and  if  he  w'anted  to  live  up  there,  he 
had  got  to  live  without  I.  So  us  fixed  up  a  little 
room  down  near  the  kitchen.  These  rooms  is 
awful  hot  in  summer,  too.  I  can  dry  fruit  in  'em 
as  good  as  in  an  oven." 

They  had  reached  the  top  story  of  the  house  by 
this  time,  after  climbing  a  long  flight  of  stairs. 
Here  there  were  a  greater  number  of  rooms,  and 
indeed  furnished  as  bedrooms;  but  they  were  low, 
and  immediately  under  the  roof.  The  air  was 
less  dank  than  in  the  first  story,  but  excessively 
close. 

"  Is  this  all  the  choice  I  have  ? "  Kotha  asked. 

"  Unless  us  was  to  give  you  our  room." 

"  But  nobody  else  sleeps  in  all  this  part  of  the 
house ! " 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Purcell,  with  an  action  that  an- 
swered to  a  Frenchman's  shrug  of  the  shoulders; 
"you  can  have  'em  all,  and  sleep  in  'em  all,  one 
after  the  other,  if  you  like.  There's  nobody  to 
object." 

"  But  suppose  I  wanted  something  in  the  night?" 
said  liotha,  who  did  not  in  the  least  relish  this 
liberty. 

"  You'd  have  to  holler  pretty  loud,  if  you  wanted 
I  to  do  anything  for  you.  I  guess  you'll  have  to 
learn  to  wait  on  yourself." 

"0  it  isn't  that,"  said  Rotha;   "I  can  wait  on 


512  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

myself;  but  if  I  wanted — something  I  couldn't  do 
for  myself — if  I  was  frightened — " 

"  What's  to  frighten  you  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know — " 

"If  you  got  frightened,  all  you'd  have  to  do 
would  be  to  take  your  little  feet  in  your  hand  and 
run  down  to  we;  that's  all  you  could  do." 

Rotha  looked  somewhat  dismayed. 

"  I  could  ha'  told  you,  it  wasn't  a  very  pleasant 
place  you  was  a  comin'  to,"  Mrs.  Purcell  went  on. 
"  Sick  o'  your  bargain,  aint  ye  ?  " 

"  What  bargain  V  " 

"  I  don'  know !  Which  o'  these  here  rooms  will 
you  take  ?  You've  seen  the  whole  now." 

Rotha  was  very  unwilling  to  make  choice  at  all 
up  there.  Yet  a  thought  of  one  of  those  great 
echoing  drawing  rooms  was  dismissed  as  soon  as 
it  came.  At  last  she  fixed  upon  a  room  near  the 
head  of  the  stairs ;  a  corner  room,  with  outlook  in 
two  directions;  flung  open  the  windows  to  let  the 
air  and  the  light  come,  in ;  and  locked  up  her  bag 
in  a  closet. 

"  There  aint  nobody  to  meddle  with  your  things," 
observed  Mrs.  Purcell,  noticing  this  action, — "  with- 
out it's  me;  and  I've  got  enough  to  do  down  stairs. 
There's  nothin'  worse  than  rats  in  the  house." 

"  Have  you  some  sheets  and  towels  for  me  ? ' 
said  Rotha.  "  And  can  you  give  me  some  watei 
by  and  by  ?  " 

"  I've  got  no  sheets  and  towels  but  them  as  us 
uses,"  replied  Mrs.  Purcell.  "Mrs  Busby  haint 


TANFIELD.  513 

said  nothin'  about  no  sheets  and  towels.  Those 
us  has  belongs  to  we.  They  aint  like  what  rich 
folks  has." 

"1  have  brought  none  with  me,  of  course.  Mrs. 
Busby  will  pay  you  for  the  use  of  them,  I  have  no 
doubt." 

"  Mrs.  Busby  don't  pay  for  nothin',"  said  the 
woman. 

"  Will  you  bring  me  some  water  ?  " 

"  I'll  give  you  a  pail,  and  you  can  fetch  some  for 
your  own  self.  I  can't  go  up  and  down  them 
stairs.  It  gives  me  a  pain  in  my  back.  I'll  let 
you  have  some  o'  us's  sheets,  if  you  like." 

"  If  you  please,"  said  Rotha. 

"But  I  can't  come  up  with  'em.  I'd  break  in 
two  if  I  went  up  and  down  there  a  few  times.  I'll 
let  you  have  'em  whenever  you  like  to  come 
after  'em." 

And  therewith  Mrs.  Purcell  vanished,  and  her 
feet  could  be  heard  descending  the  long  stair.  I 
think  in  all  her  life  Rotha  had  never  felt  much 
more  desolate  than  she  felt  just  then.  She  let  her- 
self drop  on  a  chair  and  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands.  Things  were  worse,  a  hundred  fold,  than 
ever  she  could  have  imagined  them.  She  was  of 
rather  a  nervous  temperament;  and  the  idea  of 
being  lodged  up  there  at  the  top  of  that  great, 
empty,  echoing  house,  with  nobody  within  call, 
and  neither  help  nor  sympathy  to  be  had  if  she 
wanted  either,  absolutely  appalled  her.  True,  no 
danger  was  to  be  apprehended;  not  real  danger; 


514  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

but  that  consideration  did  not  quiet  fancy  nor 
banish  fear ;  and  if  fear  possessed  her,  what  sort  of 
consolation  was  it  that  there  was  no  cause  ?  The 
fear  was  there,  all  the  same;  and  Rotha  thought  of 
the  yet  distant  shades  of  night  with  absolute  terror. 
After  giving  way  to  this  feeling  for  a  little  while, 
she  began  to  fight  against  it.  She  raised  her  head 
from  her  hands,  and  went  and  sat  down  by  the  open 
window.  Soft,  sweet,  balmy  air  was  coming  in 
gently,  changing  the  inner  condition  of  the  room 
by  degrees;  Rotha  put  her  head  half  out,  to  get  it 
unmixed.  It  was  May,  May  in  the  country ;  and 
the  air  was  bringing  May  tokens  with  it,  of  unseen 
sweetness.  There  were  lilies  of  the  valley  bloom- 
ing somewhere,  and  daffodils;  and  there  was  the 
smell  of  box,  and  spice  from  the  fir  trees,  and  fra- 
grance from  the  young  leaf  of  oaks  and  maples  and 
birches  and  beeches.  There  was  a  wild  scent  from 
not  distant  woods,  given  out  from  mosses  and  wild 
flowers  and  turf,  and  the  freshness  of  the  upturned 
soil  from  ploughed  fields.  It  was  May,  and  May 
whispering  that  June  was  near.  The  whisper  was 
so  unspeakably  sweet  that  it  stole  into  Rotha's 
heart  and  breathed  upon  its  disturbance,  almost 
breathing  it  away.  For  June  means  life  and  love 
and  happiness. 

"Everything  is  happy  now; 

Everything  is  upward  striving; 
'Tis  as  easy  now  for  the  heart  to  be  true, 
As  for  grass  to  be  green  or  skies  to  be  blue; 
"Tis  the  natural  way  of  living  1 " 


TANFIELD.  515 

June  was  coming,  and  May  was  here ;  more  placid 
and  more  pensive,  but  hardly  less  fair;  that  is,  in 
her  good  moods;  and  Rotha  insensibly  grew  com- 
forted. This  delight  would  remain,  whatever  she 
had  or  had  not  within  the  house ;  there  was  all  out 
of  doors,  and  the  Spring !  and  Eotha's  heart  made 
a  great  bound  to  meet  it.  She  could  live  out  of 
doors  a  great  deal;  and  in  the  house — well,  she 
would  make  the  best  of  things. 

She  drew  in  her  head  to  take  a  survey.  Yes,  it 
wae  a  snug  room  enough,  once  in  nice  order;  and 
the  first  thing  to  do,  she  decided,  was  to  put  it  in 
nice  order.  She  must  do  it  herself.  0  for  one  of 
those  calicos,  lying  at  present  cut  and  basted  in  her 
trunk.  She  must  make  them  up  as  fast  as  possible. 
With  the  feeling  of  a  good  deal  of  business  on  hand, 
Eotha's  spirits  rose.  She  went  down  to  the  kitchen 
again,  and  begged  the  loan  of  a  big  apron.  Mrs. 
Purcell  silently  gave  it.  Then  Rotha  desired  brushes 
and  a  broorn  and  dusters,  and  soap  and  water  and 
towels.  One  after  another  Mrs.  Purcell  placed  these 
articles,  such  as  she  had,  at  her  disposal. 

"My  trunk  is  in  the  road  by  the  front  steps,"  she 
remarked.  "Can  you  get  it  taken  up  for  me?" 

"A  trunk?"  said  Mrs.  Purcell,  knitting  her  brows 
again  into  the  scowl  which  had  greeted  Rotha  at 
the  first.  A  very  black  scowl  the  latter  thought  it. 

"Yes,  my  trunk.  It's  a  little  one.  Not  much 
for  anybody  to  carry." 

"Whatever  did  you  want  of  a  trunk?" 

"Why,  to  hold  my  things,"  said  Rotha  quietly. 


516  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"Are  you  goiu'  to  stay  all  summer?" 

"I  hope  not;  but  I  do  not  know  how  long.  My 
aunt  is  going  on  a  journey;  1  must  stay  till  she 
comes  back." 

"Why  didn't  she  let  you  go  along?" 

"I  suppose  it  was  not  convenient." 

A  grunt  from  Mrs.  Purcell.  "Kich  folks  only 
thinks  what's  convenient  for  their  own  selves  1" 

"But  she  will  pay  you  for  your  trouble." 

"She'll  pay  Mr.  Purcell,  if  she  pays  anybody.  It 
don't  come  into  my  pocket,  and  the  trouble  don't 
go  into  his'n." 

"I  shall  not  be  much  trouble." 

"Where  is  you  goin'  to  eat?  You  won't  want 
to  eat  along  o'  we  ?  " 

No,  certainly,  that  was  what  Kotha  did  not  want. 
She  made  no  reply. 

"  Mis'  Busby  had  ought  to  send  folks  to  take  care 
o'  her  company,  when  she  sends  company.  /  haint 
got  no  time.  And  us  hasn't  got  no  place.  There's 
no  place  but  us's  kitchen — will  you  like  to  eat  here  ? 
I  can't  go  and  tote  things  up  to  one  o'  them  big 
parlours." 

"  Do  the  best  you  can  for  me,"  said  Kotha.  "  I 
will  try  and  be  content."  And  staying  no  further 
parley,  which  she  felt  just  then  unable  to  bear,  she 
gathered  together  her  brushes  and  dusters  and 
climbed  up  the  long  stairs  again.  But  it  was  sweet 
when  she  got  to  her  room  under  the  roof.  The 
May  air  had  filled  the  room  by  this  time;  the  May 
sunshine  was  streaming  in ;  the  scents  and  sounds 


TANFIELD.  517 

of  the  spring  were  all  around;  and  they  brought 
with  them  inevitably  a  little  bit  of  hope  and  cheer 
into  Eotha's  heart.  Without  stopping  to  let  herself 
think,  she  set  about  putting  the  place  in  order; 
brushed  and  dusted  everything;  washed  up  the 
furniture  of  the  washstand;  made  up  the  bed,  and 
hung  towels  on  the  rack.  Then  she  drew  an  old 
easy  chair  to  a  convenient  place  by  one  of  the  win- 
dows; put  a  small  table  before  it;  got  out  and  ar- 
ranged in  order  her  writing  materials,  her  Bible 
and  Scripture  Treasury ;  put  her  bonnet  and  wrap- ' 
pings  away  in  a  closet;  and  at  last  sat  down  to 
consider  the  situation. 

She  had  got  a  corner  of  comfort  up  there,  private 
to  herself.  The  room  was  large  and  bright;  one 
window  looked  out  into  the  top  of  a  great  tulip 
tree,  the  other  commanded  a  bit  of  meadow jiear 
the  house,  and  through  the  branches  and  over  the 
summits  of  firs  and  larches  near  at  hand  and  apple 
trees  further  off,  looked  along  a  distant  stretch  of 
level  country.  No  extended  view,  and  nothing 
remarkable;  but  sweet,  peaceful  nature,  green  turf, 
and  leafy  tree  growths;  with  the  smell  of  fresh 
vegetation  and  the  spiciness  of  the  resiny  ever- 
greens, and  the  delicious  song  and  chipper  and 
warble  of  insects  and  birds.  It  all  breathed  a 
breath  of  content  into  Eotha's  heart.  But  then, 
she  was  up  here  alone  at  the  top  of  the  hoiise; 
there  was  all  that  wilderness  of  empty  rooms  be- 
tween her  and  the  rest  of  the  social  world;  and  at 
the  end  of  it,  what?  Mrs.  Purcell  and  her  kitchen; 


518  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

and  doubtless,  Mr.  Purcell.  And  what  was  Rotha 
to  do,  in  the  midst  of  such  surroundings  ?  The  girl 
grew  almost  desperate  by  the  time  she  had  fol- 
lowed this  train  of  thought  a  little  way.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  her  pleasant  room  was  a  prison  and  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Purcell  her  jailers ;  and  her  term  of  con- 
finement one  of  unknown  duration.  If  she  had  only 
a  little  money,  then  she  would  not  be 'so  utterly 
helpless  and  dependent;  even  money  to  buy  Mrs. 
Pure-ell's  civility  and  good- will ;  or  if  she  had  a  little 
more  than  that,  she  might  get  away.  Without  any 
money,  she  was  simply  a  prisoner,  and  at  the  mercy 
of  her  jailers.  0  what  had  become  of  her  friends ! 
Where  was  Mr.  Southwode,  and  how  could  he  have 
forgotten  her?  and  how  was  it  that  Mrs.  Mowbray 
had  been  taken  from  her  just  now,  just  at  this  point 
when»she  was  needed  so  dreadfully  ?  Rotha  could 
have  made  all  right  with  a  few  minutes'  talk  to 
Mrs.  Mowbray;  to  write  and  state  her  grievances, 
she  justly  felt,  was  a  different  thing,  not  so  easy 
nor  so  manifestly  proper.  She  did  not  like  to  do 
what  would  be  in  effect  asking  Mrs.  Mowbray  to 
send  for  her  and  keep  her  during  her  aunt's  absence. 
Ko,  it  was  impossible  to  do  that.  Rotha  could  not 
Better  bear  anything.  But  then, — here  she  was 
with  no  help ! 

It  all  ended  in  some  bitter  weeping.  Rotha  was 
too  young  yet  not  to  find  tears  a  relief.  She  cried 
herself  tired;  and  then  found  she  was  very  much 
in  need  of  sleep.  She  gave  herself  up  to  it,  and  to 
forgetfulness. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  PURCELLS. 

ROTHA'S  sleep  had  not  lasted  two  hours  when  it 
was  interrupted.  There  came  a  pounding  at 
her  door.  She  jumped  up  and  unlocked  it. 

"  Joseph  said,  he  guessed  you'd  want  some  din- 
ner. I  told  him,  I  didn't  know  as  you'd  care  for 
the  victuals  us  has;  but  it's  ready,  if  you  like  to 
come  and  try." 

The  extreme  rudeness  of  the  woman  acted  by 
way  of  a  counter  irritant  on  Eotha,  and  gave  her 
self-command  and  composure.  She  answered  civ- 
illy; waited  to  put  her  hair  and  dress  in  order, 
wisely  resolving  to  lose  no  means  of  influence  and 
self-assertion  that  were  within  her  reach ;  and  went 
down. 

A  small  table  was  set  in  the  kitchen,  coarsely 
but  neatly,  as  Rotha  saw  at  a  glance.  It  was  set 
for  three;  and  the  third  at  the  table  was  the  hith- 
erto uns"een  Mr.  Purcell.  He  was  a  white  man; 
not  so  good-looking  as  his  wife,  but  with  a  certain 
aspect  of  sense  and  shrewdness  that  was  at  least 
not  unkindly.  He  nodded,  did  not  trouble  him- 
self to  rise  as  Rotha  came  in;  indeed  he  was  busily 
(519) 


520  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

occupied  in  supplying  himself  with  such  strength 
and  refreshment  as  viands  can  give;  and  to  judge 
by  his  manner  he  needed  a  great  deal  of  such 
strength  and  was  in  a  hurry  to  get  it.  He  nodded, 
and  indicated  with  a  second  nod  the  place  at  table 
which  Rotha  was  expected  to  take. 

"  It'a  an  unexpected  pleasure,"  he  said.  "  Prissy 
and  me  doesn't  often  have  company.  Hope  you 
left  Mis'  Busby  well?" 

Rotha  had  an  instant's  hesitation,  whether  she 
should  accept  the  place  in  the  household  thus  of- 
fered her,  or  claim  a  different  one.  It  was  an  in- 
stant only;  her  sense  and  her  sense  of  self-respect 
equally  counselled  her  not  to  try  for  what  she 
could  not  accomplish  ;  and  she  quietly  took  the  in- 
dicated seat,  and  answered  that  Mrs.  Busby  was 
well. 

"  Now,  what'll  you  eat  ?  "  Mr.  Purcell  went  on. 
"  We're  plain  folks  —  plainer  'n  you're  accustomed  to, 
I  guess;  and  we  eat  what  we've  got;  sometimes  it's 
one  thing  and  sometimes  it's  another.  Prissy,  she 
gen'lly  fixes  it  up  somehow  so's  it'll  do,  for  me, 
anyhow;  but  I  don'  know  how  it'll  be  with  you. 
Now  to-day,  you  see,  we've  got  pork  and  greens; 
it's  sweet  pork,  for  I  fed  it  myself  and  I  know  all 
about  it  ;  and  the  greens  is  first-rate.  I  don'  know 
what  they  be;  Prissy  picked  'em;  but  now,  will 
you  try  'em  ?  If  you're  hungry,  they'll  go  pretty 


"  They's  dandelions  —  "  said  Mrs.  Purcell. 

Pork  and  dandelions  !     Rotha  was  at  first  dumb 


THE  PURCELLS.  521 

with  a  sort  of  perplexed  dismay ;  then  she  reflected, 
that  to  carry  out  her  propitiating  policy  it  would 
be  best  not  to  shew  either  scorn  or  disgust.  She 
accepted  some  of  the  greens  and  the  pork;  found 
the  potatoes  good,  and  the  bread  of  capital  quality, 
and  the  butter  sweet;  and  next  made  the  discovery 
that  Mr.  Purcell  had  not  overrated  his  wife's  abili- 
ties in  the  cooking  line ;  the  dinner  was  really,  of 
its  kind,  excellent.  She  eat  bread  and  butter,  then 
conscious  that  two  pair  of  eyes  were  covertly 
watching  her,  nibbled  at  her  greens  and  pork; 
found  them  very  passable,  and  ended  by  making 
a  good  meal. 

"  You  was  never  in  these  parts  before  ?  "  Mr.  Pur- 
cell  asked  meanwhile. 

"No,"  said  Eotha.     "Never." 

"  Mis'  Busby  comin'  along,  some  o'  these  days  ?  " 

"No,  I  think  not.  I  have  not  heard  anything 
about  her  coming  here." 

"'Spect  she  likes  grand  doings.  Does  she  live 
very  fine,  down  to  New  York  ?  " 

"  How  do  .you  mean  ?  " 

"All  the  folks  does,  in  the  City  o'  Pride,"  re- 
marked Mrs.  Purcell. 

"Do  Mis'  Busby?"  persisted  her  husband.  "Be 
they  all  highflyers,  to  her  house  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  by  '  highflyers.'" 

"  Folks  that  wears  heels  to  their  shoes,"  put  in 
Mrs.  Purcell.  "They  can't  set  foot  to  the  ground, 
like  common  folks.  And  they  puts  their  hair  up 
in  a  bunch  on  the  top.'' 


522  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"Anybody  can  do  that,"  said  Mr.  Purcell,  stick- 
ing his  knife  in  the  butter  to  detach  a  portion  of  it. 

"Anybody  can't,  Joe!  that's  where  you're  out. 
It  takes  one  o'  them  highflyers.  And  then  they 
thinks,  when  their  heels  and  their  heads  is  all 
right,  they've  got  up  above  the  rest  of  we." 

"  You  can  put  your  hair  any  way  you've  a  iniud 
to,"  returned  her  husband.  "  "  There  can't  none  of 
'em  get  ahead  o'  you  there." 

Both  parties  glanced  at  Rotha.  Her  long  hair 
was  twisted  up  in  a  loose  knot  on  the  top  of  her 
head;  very  becoming  and  very  graceful;  for  with- 
out being  in  the  least  disorderly  it  was  careless, 
and  without  being  in  the  least  complicated  or  arti- 
ficial it  was  inimitable,  by  one  not  initiated.  Hus- 
band and  wife  looked  at  her,  looked  at  each  other, 
and  laughed. 

"  Mis'  Busby  writ  me  about  you, "  said  Joe, 
slightly  changing  the  subject.  "She  said,  you 
was  one  o'  her  family." 

"  She  is  my  aunt." 

"  She  is !  I  didn't  know  Mis'  Busby  never  had 
no  brother,  nor  sister',  nor  nothin'." 

"  She  had  a  sister  once." 

"  She  aint  livin'  then.  And  you  live  with  Mis' 
Busby?" 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  'taint  none  o'  my  business,  but  Mis'  Busby 
didn't  say,  and  I  didn't  know  what  to  think.  She 
said  you  was  comin',  but  she  didn't  say  how  long 
you  was  goin'  to  stay;  and  we'd  like  to  know 


THE  PURCELLS.  523 

that,  Prissy  and  me;  'cause  o'  course  it  makes  a 
difference." 

"  In  what  ?  "  said  Rotha,  growing  desperate. 

"  Well,  in  our  feelin's,"  said  Mr.  Purcell,  inclining 
his  head  in  a  suave  manner,  indicating  his  good 
disposition.  "  You  see,  we  don'  know  how  to  take 
care  of  you,  'thout  we  knowed  if  it  was  to  be  for 
a  week,  or  a  month,  or  that.  Mis'  Busby  only 
said  you  was  comin' ;  and  she  didn't  say  why  nor 
whether." 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Rotha.  "  You  must  man- 
age as  well  as  you  can  without  knowing;  for  I 
cannot  tell  you." 

"Very  good!"  said  Mr.  Purcell,  inclining  his 
head  blandly  again ;  "  then  that's  one  point.  You 
don'  know  yourself." 

"No." 

"  That  means  she  aint  a  goin'  in  a  hurry,"  said 
Mrs.  Purcell.  "There's  her  trunk,  Joe,  that  you've 
got  to  tote  up  stairs." 

"  I'll  do  that,"  said  Joe  rising;  "if  it  aint  bigger 
'n  I  be.  Where  is  it  at  ?  " 

"  Settin'  out  in  the  road." 

"  And  where's  it  goin'  ?  " 

"  Up  to  her  room.     She'll  shew  you." 

Rotha  mounted  the  stairs  again,  preceding  Joe 
and  her  trunk,  and  feeling  more  utterly  desolate 
than  it  is  easy  to  describe.  Shut  up  here,  at  the 
top  of  this  great  empty  house,  and  with  these  as- 
sociates !  Her  heart  almost  failed  her. 

"  Well,  you've  got  it  slicked  up  here,  nice ! "  was 


524  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Mr.  Parcell's  declaration  when  he  had  come  in  and 
deposited  the  little  trunk  on  the  floor,  and  conld 
look  around  him.  "You  find  it  pretty  comfortable 
up  here,  don't  you." 

"  It's  very  far  from  the  kitchen — "  said  Rotha 
with  an  inward  shudder. 

"  Well — 'tis ;  but  I  don'  know  as  that's  any  ob- 
jection. Young  feet  don't  mind  runnin'  up  and 
down;  and  when  you  are  here,  you've  got  it  to 
yourself.  Well,  you  can  take  care  o'  yourself  up 
here ;  and  down  stairs  Prissy  will  see  that  you  don't 
starve.  I  expect  that's  how  it'll  be."  And  with 
again  an  affable  nod  of  his  capable  head,  Mr. 
Purcell  departed.  Rotha  locked  the  door,  and 
went  to  her  window;  nature  being  the  only  quar- 
ter from  which  she  could  hope  for  a  look  or  a  tone 
of  sympathy.  The  day  was  well  on  its  way  now, 
and  the  May  sun  shining  warm  and  bringing  out 
the  spicy  odours  of  the  larches  and  firs.  A  little 
stir  of  the  soft  air  lightly  moved  the  small  branches 
and  twigs  and  caressed  Rotha's  cheek.  A  sudden 
impulse  seized  her,  to  rush  out  arid  get  rid  of  the 
house  and  its  inmates  for  a  while,  and  be  alone 
with  the  loveliness  of  the  outer  world.  She  threw 
a  shawl  round  her,  put  on  her  straw  bonnet,  locked 
her  door,  and  ran  down. 

The  front  door  of  the  main  hall  was  fast,  and 
no  key  in  the  lock;  Rotha  must  go  out  as  she  had 
come  in,  through  the  kitchen.  Mrs.  Purcell  was 
there,  but  made  no  remark,  and  Rotha  went  out 
and  made  her  way  first  of  all  round  to  the  front 


THE  PUKCELLS.  525 

of  the  house.     There  she  sat  down  upon  the  steps 
and  looked  about  her. 

An  unkept  gravel  road  swept  round  from  the 
gate  by  which  she  had  entered,  up  to  her  feet,  and 
following  a  similar  curve  on  the  other  side  swept 
round  to  another  gate,  opening  on  the  same  high- 
road. The  whole  sweep  took  in  a  semicircle  of 
ground,  which  lay  in  grass,  planted  with  a  few 
trees.  To  explore  this  gravel  sweep  was  the  first 
obvious  move.  So  Kotha  walked  down  to  the  gate 
by  which  she  had  come  in  that  morning,  and  then 
back  and  down  to  the  corresponding  gate  on  the 
other  side.  All  along  the  way  from  gate  to  gate, 
there  ran  wide  flower  beds  on  both  sides;  the  back 
of  the  flower  beds  being. planted  thick  with  trees 
and  shrubbery.  Old  fashioned  flowering  shrubs 
stood  in  close  and  wildering  confusion.  Lilac 
bushes  held  forth  brown  bunches  where  the  flow- 
ers had  been.  Syringas  pushed  sweet  white  blos- 
soms between  the  branches  of  other  shrubs  that 
crowded  them  in.  May  roses  were  there,  with 
their  bright  little  red  faces,  modest  but  sweet; 
and  Scotch  roses,  aromatic  and  wild  -  looking. 
There  was  a  profusion  of  honeysuckle,  getting 
ready  to  bloom;  and  laburnums  hung  out  tresses 
of  what  would  be  soon  "dropping  gold."  And 
Ptotha  stood  still  once  before  the  snowy  balls  of  a 
Guelder  rose,  so  white  and  fresh  and  fair  that  they 
dazzled  her.  She  went  on,  down  to  the  gate  fur- 
thest from  Tanfield,  and  spent  a  little  while  there, 
looking  up  and  down  the  road.  A  straight,  well- 


526  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

kept  country  road  it  was,  straight  and  empty. 
Not  a  house  was  in  sight,  and  only  farm  fields  on 
the  other  side  of  the  bordering  fences.  Rotha 
would  have  gone  out,  and  walked  at  least  a  rod 
or  two,  but  that  gate  was  locked.  There  was  no 
traffic  or  intercourse  in  any  direction  but  with 
Tanfield.  The  empty  highway  seemed  very  lonely 
and  desolate  to  the  gazer  at  the  gate.  How  shut 
off  from  the  world  she  was !  shut  off  in  one  little 
corner  where  nobody  would  ever  look  for  her.  If 
Eotha  had  put  any  faith  in  her  aunt's  promises, 
of  course  she  would  not  have  minded  a  month's 
abode  in  this  place;  but  she  put  no  faith  in  her 
aunt,  and  had  a  sort  of  instinct  that  she  had  been 
sent  here  for  no  good  reason,  and  would  be  allowed, 
or  forced,  to  remain  here  for  an  indeterminate  and 
possibly  quite  protracted  length  of  time.  The  mere 
feeling  of  being  imprisoned  makes  one  long  to 
break  bounds;  and  so  Rotha  longed,  impatiently, 
passionately ;  but  she  saw  no  way.  A  little  money 
would  enable  her  to  do  it.  Alas,  she  had  no  mon- 
ey. Her  aunt  had  taken  care  of  that.  After  pay- 
ing for  her  breakfast  and  drive,  she  had  only  a 
veiy  few  shillings  left;  not  even  enough  to  make 
any  impression  upon  the  good  will  of  her  guar- 
dians, or  jailers.  Somehow  they  seemed  a  good 
deal  more  like  that  than  like  servants. 

Rotha  turned  despairingly  away  from  the  gate 
and  retraced  her  steps,  examining  the  old  flower 
beds  more  minutely.  They  were  terribly  neglected ; 
choked  with  weeds,  encroached  upon  by  the  bor- 


THE  PURCELLS.  527 

dering  box,  the  soil  hard  and  unstirred  for  many  a 
day.  Yet  there  were  tokens  of  better  times.  Here- 
there  was  a  nest  of  lilies  of  the  valley ;  there  a  mat 
of  moss  pink,  so  bright  and  fresh  that  Rotha  again 
stood  still  to  admire.  Daffodils  peeped  out  their 
yellow  faces  from  tufts  of  encumbering  weeds  ; 
and  stooping  down,  Rotha  found  an  abundance  of 
polyanthus  scattered  about  among  the  other  things, 
and  periwinkle  running  wild.  Nothing  was  seen 
to  advantage,  but  a  great  deal  was  there.  If  I 
stay  here,  thought  Rotha,  I  will  get  hold  of  a  hoe 
and  rake,  and  put  things  to  rights.  The  flowers 
would  be  good  friends,  any  way. 

Coming  up  towards  the  house  again,  Rotha  saw 
a  road  which  branched  off  at  right  angles  from  the 
sweep  and  went  straight  on,  parallel  to  the  side  of 
the  house  but  at  a  good  distance  from  it.  She 
turned  into  this  road.  Between  it  and  the  house 
was  one  mass  of  thick  shrubbery,  thick  enough  and 
high  enough  to  hide  each  from  the  other.  Follow- 
ing 011,  Rotha  presently  saw  at  a  little  distance  on 
her  right  hand,  the  house  being  to  the  left,  a  black 
board  fence  with  a  little  gate  in  it.  The  garden  per- 
haps, she  thought ;  but  for  the  present  she  passed 
it.  Further  along,  the  shrubbery  ceased;  a  few 
large  trees  giving  pleasant  shade  and  variety  to 
the  ground  about  the  barns,  which  stood  here  in 
numbers.  Stables,  carriage  house,  barn,  granary; 
there  was  a  little  settlement  of  outhouses.  Rotha 
had  a  liking  for  this  neighbourhood,  dating  from 
old  Medwayville  associations;  her  feet  lingered;  her 


528  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

eyes  were  gladly  alive  to  notice  every  detail;  her 
ears  heard  willingly  even  a  distant  grunting  which 
told  of  the  presence  of  the  least  amiable  of  farm- 
yard inhabitants,  somewhere.  Rotha  opened  a  door 
here  and  there,  but  saw  neither  man  nor  beast. 
Wandering  about,  she  found  her  way  finally  to  a 
huge  farmyard  back  of  the  barn.  It  was  tramped 
with  the  feet  of  cattle,  so  cattle  must  be  there  at 
times.  On  one  side  of  the  farmyard  she  found  the 
pig  pen.  It  was  so  long  since  she  had  seen  such  a 
sight,  that  she  stood  still  to  watch  the  pigs;  and 
while  she  stood  there  a  voice  almost  at  her  elbow 
made^her  start. 

"  Them  pigs  is  'most  good  enough  to  belong  to 
Mis'  Busby,  aint  they?" 

Mr.  Purcell  was  coming  at  long  strides  over  the 
barnyard,  which  Rotha  had  not  ventured  to  cross; 
she  had  picked  her  way  carefully  along  a  very  nar- 
row strip  of  somewhat  firm  ground  by  the  side  of 
the  fence.  The  man  seemed  disposed  to  be  at  least 
not  unkindly,  and  Rotha  could  not  afford  to  do 
without  any  of  the  little  civility  within  her  reach. 
So  she  answered  rather  according  to  her  policy 
than  her  feeling,  wrhich  latter  would  have  bade 
her  leave  the  spot  immediately. 
"  I  am  no  judge." 

"  Never  see  a  litter  o'  piggies  afore  ?  " 
"  I  suppose  I  have,  sometime." 
"Them's  first-rate.     Like  to  eat  'em?" 
"  Eat  them !  "  cried  Rotha.     "  Such  young  pigs?" 
"  Just  prime  now,"  said  the  man,  looking  at  them 


THE  PURCELLS.  529 

lovingly  over  the  fence,  while  grunting  noses  snif- 
fing in  his  direction  testified  that  the  inmates  of 
the  pen  knew  him  as  well  as  he  knew  them. 
"Just  prime;  they's  four,  goin'  on  five,  weeks  old. 
Prissy's  at  me  to  give  her  one  on  'em;  and  maybe 
I  will,  now  you've  come.  I  telled  her  it  was  ex- 
pensive, to  eat  up  a  half  a  winter's  stock  for  one 
dinner.  I  aint  as  extravagant  as  Prissy." 

"How  'half  a  winter's  stock'?"  said  Rotha,  by 
way  of  saying  something. 

"  Bless  you,  don't  you  see  ?  Every  one  o'  them 
fellers'd  weigh  two  hundred  by  next  Christmas; 
and  that'd  keep  Prissy  and  me  more'n  half  the 
winter.  I  s'pose  you  won't  be  here  to  help  us  eat 
it  then  ?  " 

"Next  Christmas!  No,"  said  Rotha.  "I  shall 
not  be  here  so  long  as  that." 

"  Summer's  got  to  come  first,  hain't  it?  Well, 
you  might  be  in  a  wuss  place." 

Slowly  Mr.  Purcell  and  Rotha  left  the  pig  pen 
and  the  barnyard  and  came  out  into  the  space  be- 
tween the  various  farm  buildings. 

"  Where  does  that  road  lead  to  ? "  Rotha  asked, 
pointing  to  one  which  ran  on  from  the  barns  with 
a  seemingly  straight  track  between  fields. 

"That?  that  don't  lead  no wheres." 

"  Where  should  I  find  myself,  if  I  followed  it  out 
to  the  end  ?  " 

"You'd  find  yourself  jammed  up  agin  the  hill. 
Don't  you  see  them  trees?  that's  a  hill  runnin' 
along  there." 


530  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

u  Running  right  and  left  ?  It  is  not  high.  Jus- 
a  hilly  ridge.  What  is  on  it?  " 

"  Nothin's  on  it,  but  a  mean  little  pack  o'  savins 
Aint  good  for  nothin' ;  not  even  worth  cuttin'  foi 
firewood.  What  ever  do  you  s'pose  hills  was  made 
for?  I  mean,  sich  hills;  that  haint  got  nothin'  onto 
'em  but  rocks.  What's  the  use  of  'em  ?  " 

"If  it  wasn't  for  hills,  Mr.  Purcell,  your  low  lands 
would  have  no  water;  or  only  in  a  pond  or  a  ditch 
here  and  there." 

"  What's  the  reason  they  wouldn't  ?  There  aint 
no  water  on  the  hills  now." 

"Springs?" 

"  There's  springs  every  place.  I  could  count  you 
a  half  a  dozen  in  less'n  half  a  mile." 

"Ay,  but  the  springs  come  from  the  hills;  and 
if  it  were  not  for  the  hills  they  would  not  be  any- 
where." 

"  O'  course  it's  so,  since  you  say  it,"  said  Mr.  Pur- 
cell,  scratching  his  head  with  a  comic  expression 
of  eye; — "but  I  never  see  the  world  when  there 
warn't  no  hills  on  it;  and  I  reckon  you  didn't." 

Rotha  let  the  question  drop. 

"  I  s'pose  you'd  say,  accordin'  to  that,  the  rocks 
made  the  soft  soil?" 

"  They  have  made  a  good  deal  of  it,"  said  Rotha 
smiling. 

"  Whose  hammer  broke  'em  up  ?  " 

"No  hammer.  But  water,  and  weather;  frost 
and  wet  and  sunshine." 

"  Sunshine !  "  cried  Mr.  PurcelL 


THE  PURCELLS.  531 

"They  are  always  wearing  away  the  rocks.  They 
do  it  slowly,  and  yet  faster  than  you  think." 

"  But  I'll  tell  you.  You  forget.  The  soil  aint  up 
there — it's  down  here." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  I  do  not  forget.  Water  brought 
it  down." 

Here  Mr.  Purcell  went  off  into  an  enormous  guf- 
faw of  laughter,  amused  to  the  last  degree,  and 
probably  in  doubt  whether  to  think  of  his  inform- 
ant as  befooled  or  befooling.  He  went  off  laugh- 
ing; and  Rotha  returned  slowly  homeward.  Half 
way  towards  the  drive,  she  struck  a  walk  which  led 
obliquely  through  the  tangled  shrubbery  to  the 
kitchen  door. 

Her  room,  when  she  reached  it,  looked  cheerful 
and  pleasant  enough.  The  open  windows  let  in  the 
air  and  the  sunshine,  and  the  top  of  the  tulip  tree 
was  glittering  in  the  warm  light.  At  the  same 
time  the  slantiiess  of  the  rays  shewed  that  the  after- 
noon was  on  its  way.  Night  was  coming.  And  a 
ppasm  of  dread  seized  Rotha  at  the  thought  of  be- 
ing up  there,  quite  alone,  away  from  anybody,  and 
without  guardianship  or  help  in  any  occasion  of 
need  or  alarm.  Rotha  was  of  a  nervous  and  excit- 
able temperament,  a  coward  physically,  unaccus- 
tomed to  being  alone  or  to  taking  care  of  herself. 
She  looked  forward  now  to  the  darkness  with  posi- 
tive dread  and  dismay.  O  for  her  little  corner 
room  at  Mrs.  Mowbray's,  where  she  was  secure,  and 
in  the  midst  of  friends !  0  for  even  her  cheerless 
little  room  at  her  aunt's,  where  at  least  there  were 


532  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

people  below  her  to  guard  the  house !  Here,  quite 
alone  through  the  loiig,  still  nights,  and  nobody 
within  even  calling  distance,  how  should  she  ever 
stand  it !  For  a  little  while  Rotha's  wits  were  half 
paralyzed  with  terror.  Reason  then  began  slowly 
to  assert  herself,  and  the  girl's  natural  force  of  char- 
acter arose  to  struggle  with  the  incubus  of  fear. 
She  reminded  herself  that  nothing  was  more  un- 
likely than  a  night  alarm ;  that  the  house  was  known 
to  be  empty  of  all  that  might  tempt  thieves,  and 
that  furthermore  also  it  was  in  the  highest  degree 
unlikely  that  the  neighbourhood  of  Tanfield  har- 
boured such  characters.  Probably  she  was  safer 
from  disturbance  up  here,  than  either  at  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray's  or  at  Mrs.  Busby's.  But  of  what  use  was  the 
absence  of  disturbance,  when  there  was  the  pres- 
ence of  fear  ?  Rotha  reasoned  in  vain.  She  had  a 
lively  imagination ;  and  this  excellent  property  now 
played  her  some  of  the  arch  tricks  of  which  it  is 
capable.  Possible  disturbances  occurred  to  her; 
scenes  of  distress  arose  upon  her  vision,  so  sharp 
and  clear  that  she  shrank  from  them.  Probable  ? 
No,  thoy  were  not;  but  who  should  say  they  were 
not  possible  ?  Had  not  everything  improbable  hap- 
pened in  this  world,  as  well  as  the  things  which 
were  reasonably  to  be  expected?  And  if  only  pos- 
sible, if  they  were  possible,  where  were  comfort  and 
security  to  be  found  ?  Without  some  degree  .of 
both,  Rotha  felt  as  if  she  must  quit  the  place,  set  out 
and  walk  to  the  hotel  at  Tanfield;  only  she  had  no 
money  to  pay  her  charges  with  if  she  were  there. 


THE  PURCELLS.  533 

Distress,  and  be  it  that  it  was  unreasonable,  it 
was  very  real  distress,  drove  her  at  last  to  the 
refuge  we  all  are  ready  to  seek  when  we  can  get 
no  other.  She  took  her  Bible  and  sat  down  with  it, 
to  try  to  find  something  that  would  quiet  her  there. 
Opening  it  aimlessly  at  first;  then  with  a  recollec- 
tion of  certain  words  in  it,  she  turned  to  the  third 
psalm. 

"  I  cried  unto  the  Lord  with  my  voice,  and  he 
heard  me  out  of  his  holy  hill.  Selah.  I  laid  me 
down  and  slept;  I  awaked,  for  the  Lord  sustained 
me.  I  will  not  be  afraid  of  thousands  of  people, 
that  have  set  themselves  against  me  round  about." 

David  had  more  than  fancied  enemies  to  fear ;  he 
was  stating  an  actual,  not  a  problematical  case; 
and  yet  he  could  say  "I will  not  be  afraid"  !  How 
was  that  ever  possible?  David  was  one  of  the 
Lord's  people ;  true ;  but  do  not  the  Lord's  people 
have  disagreeable  things  happen  to  them  ?  How 
can  they,  or  how  should  they,  "not  be  afraid"? 
Just  to  reach  that  blessed  condition  of  fearlessness 
was  Rotha's  desire;  the  way  she  saw  not.  There 
was  a  certain  comfort  in  the  fact  that  other  people 
had  seen  it  and  found  it;  but  how  should  she? 
Rotha  had  none  to  ask  beside  her  Bible,  so  she 
went  to  that  Query,  do  the  books  and  helps 
which  keep  us  from  applying  to  the  Bible,  act  as 
benefits  or  hindrances  ? 

Rotha  would  have  been  greatly  at  a  loss,  how- 
ever, about  carrying  on  her  inquiry,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  her  "  Treasury  of  Scripture  Knowledge." 


534  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Turning  to  it  now  as  to  a  most  precious  friend,  she 
took  the  words  in  the  psalm  she  had  been  reading 
for  her  starting  place.  And  the  very  first  next 
words  she  was  directed  to -were  these: — 

"  I  will  both  lay  me  down  in  peace,  and  sleep ; 
for  thou,  Lord,  only  makest  me  to  dwell  in  safety." 
Ps.  iv.  8. 

Rotha  stopped  and  laid  down  her  face  in  her 
hands.  0  if  she  could  quietly  say  that !  0  what 
a  life  must  it  be,  when  any  one  can  simply  and 
constantly  say  that !  "  Lay  me  down  and  sleep  " ; 
give  up  the  care  of  myself;  feel  secure.  But  in  the 
midst  of  danger,  how  can  one?  Rotha  thought  she 
must  be  a  poor,  miserable  fraction  of  a  Christian,  to 
be  so  far  from  the  feeling  of  the  psalm;  and  proba- 
bly she  was  right.  "If  ye  had  faith  as  a  grain  of 
mustard  seed,"  the  Lord  used  to  say  to  his  disciples; 
so  apparently  in  his  view  they  had  scarce  any  faith 
at  all.  And  who  of  us  is  better  ?  How  many  of 
us  can  remove  mountains?  Yet  faith  as  big  as 
a  grain  of  mustard  seed  can  do  that.  What  must 
our  faith  be  ?  Not  quite  a  miserable  sham,  but  a 
miserable  fraction.  Rotha  felt  self-reproved,  con- 
victed, longing;  however  she  did  not  see  how  she 
was  at  once  to  become  better.  She  lifted  her  eyes, 
wet  with  sorrowful  drops,  and  went  on.  If  there 
were  help,  the  Bible  must  shew  it.  Her  next  pas- 
sage was  the  following: — 

"  It  is  vain  for  you  to  rise  up  early,  to  sit  up  late, 
to  eat  the  bread  of  sorrows ;  for  so  he  giveth  his  be- 
loved sleep." — Ps.  cxxvii.  2. 


THE  PURCELLS.  535 

Studying  this  a  good  while,  in  the  light  of  her 
fears  and  wants,  Eotha  came  to  a  sense  of  the  ex- 
quisite beauty  of  it;  which  wiser  heads  than  hers, 
looking  at  the  words  merely  in  cool  speculation,  do 
fail  to  find.  She  saw  that  the  toiling  and  moiling 
of  men  passes  away  from  the  Lord's  beloved;  that 
what  those  try  for  with  so  much  pains  and  worry, 

these  have  without   either;   and   in   the  absolute 

•  ' 

rest  of  faith  can  sleep  while  the  Lord  takes  care. 
His  people  are  quiet,  while  the  world  wear  them- 
selves out  with  anxiety  and  endeavour. 

"  His  beloved." — I  cannot  have  got  to  that, 
thought  Rotha.  I  am  not  one  of  them.  But  I 
must  be.  That  is  what  I  want  to  be. 

The  next  thing  was  a  promise  to  the  Israelites, 
as  far  back  as  Moses'  time;  that  if  they  kept  the 
ways  of  the  Lord,  among  other  blessings  of  peace 
should  be  this :  that  they  should  Ife  down  and  none 
f-hould  make  them  afraid;  but  Rotha  thought  that 
hardly  applied,  and  went  further.  Then  she  came 
to  the  word  in  the  third  of  Proverbs,  also  spoken 
to  the  man  who  should  "keep  wisdom": — 

"  When  thou  liest  down,  thou  shalt  not  be  afraid; 
yea,  thou  shalt  lie  down,  and  thy  sleep  shall  be 
sweet." — Prov.  iii.  24. 

It  set  Rotha  pondering,  this  and  the  former  pas- 
sage. Is  it  because  I  am  so  far  from  God,  then  ? 
because  I  follow  and  obey  him  so  imperfectly?  that 
I  am  so  troubled  with  fear.  Quite  reasonable,  if  it 
is  so.  Naturally,  the  sheep  that  are  nearest  the 
shepherd,  feel  most  of  his  care.  What  next  ?  It 


536  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

gave  her  a  stir,  what  came  next:  It  was  in  the 
time  of  the  early  church;  James,  the  first  martyr 
among  the  apostles,  had  been  beheaded  by  Herod's 
order;  and  seeing  that  this  was  agreeable  to  the 
fanatical  Jews,  he  had  apprehended  Peter  also  and 
put  him  in  ward ;  waiting  only  till  the  feast  of  the 
Passover  should  be  out  of  the  way,  before  he 
brought  him  forth  to  execution.  And  it  was  the 
night  preceding  the  day  which  should  be  the  day 
of  execution ;  "  and  the  same  night  Peter  was  sleep- 
ing between  two  soldiers,  bound  with  two  chains." 
Chained  to  a  Eoman  soldier  on  one  side  of  him,  and 
to  another  on  the  other  side  of  him,  on  no  soft  bed, 
and  expecting  a  speedy  summons  to  death,  Peter 
luas  sleeping.  All  sorts  of  characters  do  sleep,  it  is 
said,  the  night  before  the  day  when  they  know 
they  are  to  be  put  to  death;  in  weariness,  in  de- 
spair, in  stolid  iifdifference,  in  stoical  calmness,  in 
proud  defiance.  But  Rotha  knew  it  was  upon  no 
such  slumbers  that  the  "light  shined  in  the  prison," 
and  to  no  such  sleeper  that  the  angel  of  the  Lord 
came,  or  ever  does  come.  That  was  the  sleep  of 
meekness  and  trust 

The  list  of  passages  given  by  the  "  Treasury  "  on 
that  clause  of  the  third  psalm  here  came  to  an  end. 
Rotha  had  not  enough,  however;  she  took  up  the 
words  in  the  6th  verse — "I  will  not  be  afraid,"  etc. 
And  then  she  came  to  the  burst  of  confident  tri- 
umph in  the  27th  psalm.  And  then, 

"  God  is  our  refuge  and  strength,  a  very  present 
help  in  trouble.  Therefore  will  not  we  fear,  though 


THE  PURCELLS.  537 

the  earth  be  removed,  and  though  the  mountains 
be  carried  into  the  midst  of  the  sea." — Ps.  xlvi.  1,  2. 
Here  was  a  new  feature.  Trouble  might  come, 
yea,  disaster;  and  yet  the  children  of  God  would 
not  fear.  How  that?  Such  absolute  love,  such 
perfect  trust,  such  utter  devotion  to  the  pleasure 
of  their  Father,  that  what  was  his  will  became  their 
will,  and  they  knew  no  evil  could  really  touch 
them  ?  It  must  be  so.  O  but  this  is  a  step  further 
in  the  divine  life.  Or  does  this  devotion  lie  also 
at  the  bottom  of  all  those  declarations  of  content 
and  peace  she  had  been  reading?  Rotha  believed 
it  must,  after  she  had  studied  the  question  a  little. 
O  but  what  union  with  God  is  here ;  what  nearness 
to  him ;  what  consequent  lofty  and  sweet  elevation 
beyond  the  reach  of  earthly  trouble.  Rotha  got 
no  further.  She  saw,  in  part  at  least,  what  she 
wanted;  and  falling  on  her  knees  there  by  the 
open  window,  she  prayed  that  the  peace  and  the  life 
and  the  sweetness  of  the  May  might  come  into 
her  heart,  by  the  perfecting  of  love  and  faith  and 
obedience  there.  She  prayed  for  protection  in  her 
loneliness,  and  for  the  trust  which  saves  from  fear 
of  evil.  A  great  asking !  but  great  need  makes 
bold.  She  prayed,  until  it  seemed  as  if  she  could 
pray  no  longer;  and  then  she  went  back  to  her 
Bible  again.  But  gradually  there  began  to  grow 
up  a  feeling  in  Rotha,  that  round  the  walls  of  her 
room  there  was  an  invisible  rampart  of  defence 
which  nothing  evil  could  pass.  And  when  one  of 
her  Bible  references  took  her  to  the  story  of  Elisha, 


538  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

shut  up  in  a  city  enclosed  by  an  army  of  enemies, 
but  whose  servant's  eyes  in  answer  to  his  prayer 
were  opened  to  see  "the  mountain  full  of  horses 
and  chariots  of  fire  round  about  Elisha  " — her  faith 
made  a  sort  of  spring.  She  too  seemed  to  have  a 
sight  of  the  invisible  forces,  mostly  undreamed  of 
because  unseen,  which  keep  guard  around  the 
Lord's  people;  and  she  bowed  her  head  in  a  sort 
of  exulting  gladness.  Why  this  was  even  better 
than  to  need  no  defence,  to  know  that  such  defence 
was  at  hand.  Without  danger  there  could  be  no 
need  of  guard ;  and  is  not  such  unseen  ministry  a 
glorious  companionship  ?  and  is  it  not  sweeter  to 
know  oneself  safe  in  the  Lord's  hand,  than 'to  be 
safe,  if  that  could  be,  anywhere  else  ? 

I  have  learned  one  thing,  said  Eotha  to  her- 
self, as  she  rose  to  make  some  final  arrangements 
for  the  evening.  I  wonder  if  I  came  here  partly 
to  learn  this?  But  what  can  I  have  been  brought 
here  for,  indeed?  There  is  some  reason.  There 
is  the  promise  that  everything  shall  work  for  good 
to  them  that  love  God;  so  according  to  that,  my 
coming  here  must  work  good  for  me.  But  how 
possibly?  What  am  I  to  do,  or  to  learn,  here? 
It  must  be  one  thing  or  the  other.  My  learning 
in  general  seems  to  be  stopped,  except  Bible  learn- 
ing. Well,  I  will  carry  that  on.  I  shall  have 
time  enough.  What  else  in  all  the  world  can 
I  do? 

Her  unfinished  calico  dresses  occurred  to  her. 
There  was  work  for  some  days  at  least.  Perhaps 


THE  PURCELLS.  539 

by  that  time  she  would  know  more.  For  the  pres- 
ent, with  a  glad  step  and  a  lightened  heart  she  went 
about  her  room,  arranging  certain  things  in  what 
she  thought  the  prettiest  and  most  convenient 
way;  got  out  some  clothes,  and  even  work;  and 
then  wished  she  had  a  book.  Where  was  she  to 
get  books  to  read  ?  and  how  could  she  live  with- 
out them?  This  question  was  immediately  so 
urgent  that  she  could  not  wait  to  have  it  settled; 
she  must  go  down  without  delay  to  Mrs.  Purcell, 
and  see  if  any  information  respecting  it  was  to  be 
had  in  that  quarter. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

ROTHA'S  REFUGE. 

THE  kitchen  was  all  "redd  up,"  as  neat  as  wax; 
everything  in  its  place ;  and  at  the  table  stood 
Mrs.  Purcell  with  her  sleeves  rolled  up  to  her  el- 
bows and  her  arms  in  a  great  pan,  hard  at  work 
kneading  bread.  She  looked  clean  too,  although 
her  dress  was  certainly  dilapidated;  perhaps  that 
was  economy,  though  a  better  economy  would 
have  mended  it.  So  Rotha  thought.  She  did  not 
at  once  start  the  business  she  had  come  upon ;  she 
stood  by  the  table  watching  the  bread-making 
operation.  Mrs.  Purcell  eyed  her  askance.  This 
woman  had  most  remarkable  eyes.  Black  they 
were,  as  sloefs,  and  almond  shaped ;  and  they  could 
look  darker  than  black,  and  fiery  at  the  same  time ; 
and  they  could  look  keen  and  sly  and  shrewd,  and 
that  is  the  way  they  looked  out  of  their  corners  at 
Rotha  now,  with  an  element  of  suspicion.  A  lit- 
tle while  without  speech.  She  was  kneading  her 
dough  vigorously ;  the  large  smooth  mass  rolling 
and  turning  under  her  strong  wrists  and  fingers 
with  quick  and  thorough  handling. 

"  Isn't  that  rather  hard  work  ?  "  Botha  said. 
(540) 


ROTHA'S  REFUGE.  541 

"I  think  all  work's  hard,"  was  the  morose-sound- 
ing answer. 

"Do  you?  But  it  would  be  harder  not  to  do 
any." 

"That's  how  folks  looks  at  it.  I'd  rather  eat 
bread  than  make  it.  There  aint  no  fun  in  work. 
I'd  like  to  sit  down  and  have  somebody  work  for 
me.  That's  what  you've  been  doin'  all  your  life, 
aint  it  ?  " 

"  Not  quite,"  said  Rotha  gravely. 

"  Can  you  make  bread  ?  " 

"No." 

"Then  I  s'pose  you  think  I'll  make  your  bread 
for  you  while  you  are  here  ?  " 

"I  do  not  think  about  it,"  said  Rotha  with  spirit. 
"  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  My  aunt  sent  me 
here.  If  you  cannot  keep  me,  or  do  not  wish 
to  keep  me,  that  is  your  affair.  I  will  go  back 
again." 

"  What  did  you  come  for  ?  " 

"I  told  you;  my  aunt  was  leaving  home." 

"Joe  says,  there's  fish  in  the  brook  that'll  jump 
at  a  fly  made  o'  muslin — but  I  aint  that  sort  o'  fish. 
I  didn't  engage  to  make  no  bread  for  Mis'  Busby 
when  I  come  here." 

"Shall  I  write  to  my  aunt,  then,  that  it  is  not 
convenient  for  me  to  stay  here." 

"You  can  if  you  like,  for  it  aint  convenient;  but 
it's  no  use;  for  Mr.  Purcell  don't  care,  and  Mis' 
Busby  don't  care.  I'll  make  all  the  bread  you'll 
eat;  I  guess." 


542  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  What  do  Mrs.  Busby  and  Mr.  Purcell  not  care 
about  ? " 

"  They  don't  care  whether  I  make  bread  all  day, 
or  not." 

"I  hope  it  will  not  be  for  long,"  said  Rotha, 
"  that  I  shall  give  you  this  trouble." 

"  I  don't  know  how  long  it  will  be,"  said  Mrs. 
Purcell,  making  out  her  loaves  with  quick  dexter- 
ity and  putting  them  in  the  pans  which  stood 
ready;  "  but  I  aint  a  fool.  I  can  tell  you  one  thing. 
Mis'  Busby  aint  a  fool  neither;  and  when  she  pays 
anybody  to  go  from  New  York  here  in  the  cars,  it 
aint  to  pick  her  a  bunch  o'  flowers  and  go  back 
again." 

Rotha  was  not  a  fool  either,  and  was  of  the 
same  opinion.  This  brought  her  back  to  her  busi- 
ness. 

"  If  I  stay  a  while,  I  shall  want  to  get  at  some 
books  to  read,"  she  said.  "  Are  there  any  in  the 
house  ?  " 

"  Books  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Purcell.  "  I've  never  seen 
no  books  since  I've  been  here." 

"  Where  can  I  get  some,  then?  Where  are  there 
any?" 

"  I  don't  know  nothin'  about  books.  I  don't 
have  no  use  for  no  books,  my  own  self.  I  don't 
read  none — 'cept  my  '  little  blue  John.'  " 

"  Your  '  little  blue  John '  ?     What  is  that  ?  " 

"  I  s'pose  you  have  a  big  one." 

"  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean." 

"  I  don't  mean   nothin',"  said   the   woman  im- 


ROTHA'S  REFUGE.  543 

patiently.  "  There's  my  '  little  blue  John ' — up 
on  the  mantel  shelf;  you  can  look  at  it  if  you 
want  to." 

Looking  to  the  high  shelf  above  the  kitchen 
fireplace,  Rotha  saw  a  little  book  lying  there. 
Taking  it  down,  she  was  greatly  astonished  to  find 
it  a  copy  of  the  gospel  of  John,  a  little  square  copy, 
in  limp  covers,  very  much  read.  More  surprised 
Rotha  could  hardly  have  been. 

"Why,  do  you  like  this?"  she  involuntarily 
exclaimed. 

"Sometimes  I  think  I  do," — was  Mrs.  Purcell's 
ambiguous,  or  ironical,  answer;  as  she  carefully 
spread  neat  cloths  over  her  pans  of  bread.  Rotha 
wondered  at  the  woman.  She  was  handsome,  she 
had  a  good  figure  and  presence;  but  there  was  .a 
curious  mixture  of  defiance  and  recklessness  in  her 
expression  and  manner. 

"  I  see  you  have  read  it  a  good  deal." 

"  It's  easy  readin'," — was  the  short  answer. 

"  Do  you  like  the  gospel  of  John  so  much  better 
than  all  the  rest  of  the  Bible  ?  " 

"  I  don'  know.  The  rest  has  too  many  words  I 
can't  make  out." 

"  Well,  I  am  very  fond  of  the  gospel  of  John  too," 
said  Rotha.  "  I  think  everybody  is, — that  loves 
Christ." 

"  Do  you  love  him  ?  "  Mrs.  Purcell  asked  quickly 
and  with  a  keen  look. 

"  Yes,  indeed.     Do  you  ?  " 

Mrs.  Purcell  laughed  a  little  laugh,  which  Rotha 


544  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

could  not  understand.  "I  aint  one  o'  the  good 
folks  " — she  said. 

"But  you  might  love  him,  still,"  said  Rotha, 
drawn  on  to  continue  the  conversation,  she  hardly 
knew  why,  for  she  certainly  believed  the  woman's 
last  assertion. 

"The  folks  that  love  him  are  good  folks,  aint 
they?" 

"  They  ought  to  be,"  said  Rotha  slowly. 

"Well,  that's  what  I  think.  There's  folks  that 
say  they  love  him,  and  I  can't  see  as  they're  no 
better  for  it.  I  can't." 

"  Perhaps  they  are  trying  to  be  better." 

"  Do  you  think  Mis'  Busby  is  ?  " 

The  question  came  with  such  sharp  quickness 
that  Rotha  was  at  a  loss  how  to  answer. 

"  She  says  she  do.  I  aint  one  o'  the  good  folks; 
and  sometimes  I  tells  Joe  I'm  glad  I  aint." 

"  But  Mrs.  Purcell,  that  is  not  the  way  to  look 
at  it.  I  have  seen  other  people  that  said  they 
loved  Christ,  and  they  lived  as  if  they  did.  They 
were  beautiful  people  !  " 

Rotha  spoke  with  emphasis,  and  Mrs.  Purcell 
gave  her  one  of  her  sideway  glances.  "  I  never 
see  no  such  folks,"  she  returned  cynically. 

"I  am  very  glad  I  have,"  said  Rotha;  "and  I 
know  religion  is  a  blessed,  beautiful  truth.  I  have 
seen  people  that  loved  Jesus,  and  were  a  little  bit 
like  him  in  loving  other  people ;  they  did  not  live 
for  themselves;  they  were  always  taking  care  of 
somebody,  or  teaching  or  helping  somebody;  mak- 


ROTHA'S  REFUGE.  545 

ing  people  happy  that  had  been  miserable;  and 
giving,  everywhere  they  could,  pleasure  and  com- 
fort and  goodness.  I  have  seen  such  people." 

"  Where  did  they  live  ?  " 

"  In  New  York." 

"Was  they  in  Mis'  Busby's  house?" 

"Not  those  I  was  speaking  of." 

"  When  I  see  folks  like  that,  I'll  be  good  too," 
was  Mrs.  Purcell's  conclusion. 

"  But  you  love  this  little  book  ? "  said  Eotha, 
recurring  to  the  thumb-worn  little  volume  in  her 
hand. 

"I  didn't  tell  you  I  did." 

"No,  but  I  see  you  do.  I  should  think,  any- 
body that  liked  the  gospel  of  John,  would  want  to 
be  like  what  it  says." 

"  1  didn't  tell  you  I  didn't." 

"  No,"  said  Rotha,  half  laughing.  "  I  am  only 
guessing,  and  wishing,  you  see.  Mrs.  Purcell,  will 
you  take  some  water  up  to  my  room  ?" 

The  woman's  brows  darkened.  "What  for?" 
she  asked. 

"  To  wash  with.  The  water  I  took  up  this  af- 
ternoon was  for  putting  my  room  in  order, — 
basin  and  pitcher  and  washstand,  and  wiping 
off  dust.  I  want  water,  you  know,  every  day  for 
myself." 

"  The  water's  down  here — just  out  o'  that  door." 

"  But  I  cannot  wash  down  here." 

"  I  don't  know  nothin'  about  that,  whether  you 
can  or  whether  you  can't.  That's  where  us  washes. 


5i6  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

If  you  want  to  do  it  up  stairs,  there's  nothin'  to 
hinder  you." 

"  Except  that  somebody  must  carry  up  the  water." 

"  That's  not  my  business,"  said  the  woman.  "You 
can  take  that  pail  if  you  want  to;  but  you  must 
bring  it  down  again.  That's  my  pail  for  goin'  to 
the  pump." 

Rotha  hesitated.  Must  she  come  to  this  ?  And 
to  doing  everything  for  herself  and  for  her  own 
room  ?  For  if  carrying  up  the  water,  then  surely 
all  other  services  beside.  Providing  water  was 
one  of  the  least.  Was  it  come  to  this  ?  She  must 
know. 

"  Then  you  will  not  take  care  of  my  room  for  me, 
Mrs.  Purcell?  "  she  asked  quietly. 

"  Mis'  Busby  didn't  write  nothin'  about  my  takin' 
care  o'  rooms,"  said  Mrs.  Purcell;  "  without  they 
was  empty  ones.  I've  got  you  to  take  care  of;  I 
can't  take  o'  your  room  too.  You're  strong  and 
well,  aint  you,  like  other  folks?  " 

Rotha  made  no  reply.  She  stood  still,  silent  and 
indignant,  both  at  the  impertinence  of  the  woman's 
speech  and  at  the  hardness  of  her  aunt's  unkind- 
ness.  The  shadow  of  the  prospect  before  her  fell 
upon  her  very  gloomily  and  chill.  Mrs.  Purcell  it 
was  safest  not  to  answer.  Rotha  turned,  took  up 
the  pail  and  went  to  the  pump. 

And  there  she  stood  still  She  set  down  her 
pail,  but  instead  of  pumping  the  water,  she  laid 
hold  of  the  pump  handle  and  leaned  upon  it 
What  ever  was  to  become  of  her?  Must  she  be 


ROTHA'S  REFUGE.     •  547 

degraded  not  only  to  menial  companionship  but  to 
manual  labour  also?  Once  no  doubt  Rotha  had 
been  familiar  with  such  service ;  but  that  was  when 
she  was  a  child ;  and  the  years  that  had  passed  since 
then  and  the  atmosphere  of  Mrs.  Mowbray's  house 
had  ripened  in  her  a  love  of  refinement  that  was 
almost  fastidious.  Not  only  of  innate  refinement, 
which  she  knew  would  not  be  affected,  but  of  re- 
finement in  all  outward  things ;  her  hands,  her  car- 
riage, her  walk,  her  dress.  Must  she  live  now  to 
do  things  which  would  harden  her  hands,  soil  her 
dress,  bend  her  straight  figure,  and  make  her  light 
step  heavy?  For  how  long?  If  she  had  known 
it  would  be  only  for  a  month,  Rotha  would  have 
laughed  at  it,  and  played  with  it;  instead  of  any 
such  comforting  assurance,  she  had  a  foreboding 
that  she  was  to  be  left  in  Tan  field  for  an  indefinite 
length  of  time.  She  tried  to  reason  herself  out  of 
this,  saying  to  herself  that  she  had  really  no  ground 
for  it ;  in  vain.  The  sure  instinct,  keener  than  rea- 
son in  taking  evidence,  forbade  her.  She  stood  in 
a  sort  of  apathy  of  dismay,  looking  into  the  sur- 
rounding shrubbery  and  noting  things  without 
heeding  them;  feeling  the  sweet,  still  spring  air, 
the  burst  of  fresh  life  and  the  opening  of  fresh 
promise  in  earth  and  sky;  hearing  the  birds  twit- 
ter, the  cocks  crowing,  and  noticing  that  there  was 
little  else  to  even  characterize,  much  less  break, 
the  silent  peace  of  nature.  In  the  midst  of  all  this 
what  she  felt  was  revulsion  from  her  present  sur- 
roundings and  companionship;  and  it  was  at  last 


548  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

more  to  get  out  of  Mrs.  Purcell's  near  neighbour- 
hood than  for  any  other  reason  that  she  filled  her 
pail  and  carried  it  up  stairs  to  her  room.  She  was 
half  glad  now  that  it  was  so  far  away  from  the 
kitchen.  If  she  could  but  take  her  meals  up  there  ! 
She  filled  her  pitchers;  but  did  not  immediately  go 
back  with  Mrs.  Purcell's  pail.  She  sat  down  at  the 
window  instead,  and  crossing  her  arms  on  the  sill, 
sat  looking  out,  questioning  the  May  why  she  was 
there  ? 

Oddly  enough,  it  seemed  as  if  the  May  answered 
her  after  a  while.  The  beauty,  the  perfectness,  the 
loveliness,  the  peace,  held  perhaps  somewhat  the 
same  sort  of  argument  with  her  as  was  addressed 
by  the  Lord  himself,  once  upon  a  time,  to  his  ser- 
vant Job.  Here  there  was  no  audible  voice ;  yet  I 
think  it  is  still  the  same  blessed  Speaker  that  speaks 
through  his  works,  and  partly  the  same,  or  similar, 
things  that  he  says.  Could  there  be  such  order, 
such  beauty,  such  plain  adaptation,  regularity  and 
system,  in  one  part  of  the  works  and  government 
of  God,  and  not  in  another.  And  after  all  it  was 
He  who  had  sent  Rotha  to  this  place  and  involved 
her  in  such  conditions.  Then  surely  for  some  rea- 
son. As  the  gentleness  of  the  spring  air  is  unto 
the  breaking  of  winter's  bands,  and  the  rising  of 
the  sap  is  unto  the  swelling  of  the  buds  and  by  and 
by  the  bursting  leaf,  must  it  not  be  so  surely  a  defi- 
nite purpose  with  which  she  had  been  brought 
here?  What  purpose?  Were  there  bands  to  be 
broken  in  her  soul's  life  ?  t^ere  buds  and  leafage 


ROTHA'S  REFUGE.  549 

and  flower  to  be  developed  in  her  character,  for 
which  this  severe  weather  was  but  a  safe  and  nec- 
essary precursor  ?  It  might  be ;  it  must  be ;  for  it 
is  written  that  "all  things  work  together  for  good 
to  them  that  love  God."  Botha  grew  quieter,  the 
voice  of  the  spring  was  so  sweet  and  came  so  clear 
— "  Child,  trust,  trust !  Nothing  can  go  wrong  in 
God's  management."  She  heard  it  and  she  felt  it; 
but  Rotha  was  after  all  a  young  disciple  and  her 
experience  was  small,  and  things  looked  unprom- 
ising. Some  tears  came;  however  she  was  com- 
forted and  did  trust,  and  resolved  that  she  would 
try  to  lose  none  of  the  profiting  she  might  anyway 
gain. 

And,  as  she  had  now  so  few  books  to  be  busy 
with,  might  she  not  be  meant  to  find  one  such 
great  source  of  profiting  in  her  Bible  ? 

She  drew  it  to  her  and  opened  her  little  "  Treas- 
ury." What  ever  could  she  do  now  without  that  ? 
It  gave  her  a  key,  with  which  she  could  go  un- 
locking door  after  door  of  riches,  which  else  she 
would  be  at  a  loss  to  get  at.  She  opened  it  at  the 
eighth  chapter  of  Romans  and  looked  at  the  28th 
verse. 

"We  know,  that  all  things  work  together  for 
good  to  them  that  love  God—" 

But  things  that  come  through  people's  wicked- 
ness ? 

She  went  on  to  the  first  reference.  It  was  in  the 
same  chapter.  "  Who  shall  separate  us  from  the 
love  of  Christ?" 


550  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Well,  nothing,  and  nobody.  And  if  so,  that  love 
standing  fast,  surely  it  was  guaranty  enough  that 
no  harm  should  come.  Tears  began  to  run,  an- 
other sort  of  tears,  hot  and  full,  from  Rotha's  eyes. 
Shall  a  child  of  God  have  that  love,  and  know  he 
has  it,  and  worry  because  he  has  not  somewhat 
else  ?  But  this  was  not  exactly  to  the  point.  She 
would  look  further. 

What  now?  "We  glory  in  tribulation,"  said 
the  apostle ;  and  he  went  on  to  say  why ;  because 
the  outcome  of  it,  the  right  outcome,  was  to 
have  the  heart  filled  with  the  love  of  God,  and 
so,  satisfied.  How  that  should  be,  Rotha  studied. 
It  appeared  that  trouble  drove  men  to  God;  and 
that  the  consequence  of  looking  to  him  was  the 
finding  out  how  true  and  how  gracious  he  is;  so 
fixing  desire  upon  him,  which  desire,  when  earnest 
enough  and  simple  enough,  should  have  all  it 
wanted.  And  cannot  people  have  all  this  without 
trouble?  thought  Rotha.  But  she  remembered  how 
little  she  had  sought  God  when  her  head  had  been 
full  of  lessons  and  studies  and  books  and  all  the 
joys  of  life  at  Mrs.  Mowbray's.  She  had  not  for- 
gotten him  certainly,  but  her  life  did  not  need 
him  to  fill  any  void;  she  was  busied  with  other 
things.  A  little  sorrowfully  she  turned  to  the 
next  reference.  Ge.  1.  20.  Joseph's  comforting 
words  to  the  brothers  who  had  once  tried  to  ruin 
him. 

"As  for  you,  ye  thought  evil  against  me;  but 
God  meant  it  unto  good, — " 


ROTHA'S  REFUGE.  551 

Rotha's  heart  made  a  leap.  Yes,  she  knew  Jo- 
seph's story,  and  what  untoward  circumstances 
they  had  been  which  had  borne  such  very  sweet 
fruit.  Could  it  be,  that  in  her  own  case  things 
might  work  even  so  ?  Her  aunt's  evil  intention  do 
her  no  harm,  but  be  a  means  of  advantage?  "All 
things  shall  work  for  good" — then,  one  way  or  the 
other  way,  but  perhaps  both  ways.  Yet  she  was 
quite  unable  to  imagine  hoiv  good  could  possibly 
accrue  to  her  from  all  this  stoppage  of  her  studies, 
separation  from  her  friends,  seclusion  from  all  the 
world  at  the  top  of  an  empty  house,  and  banish- 
ment to  the  society  of  Joe  Purcell  and  his  wife. 
To  be  sure,  things  were  as  dark  with  Joseph  when 
he  was  sold  for  a  slave.  Rotha's  heart  was  a  little 
lightened.  The  next  passage  brought  the  water  to 
her  eyes  again.  0  how  sweet  it  ran ! 

"Thou  shalt  remember  all  the  way  which  the 
Lord  thy  God  led  thee  these  forty  years  in  the 
wilderness,  to  humble  thee,  and  to  prove  thee, 
to  know  what  was  in  thine  heart,  whether  thou 
wouldest  keep  his  commandments  or  no.  And  he 
humbled  thee,  and  suffered  thee  to  hunger,  and 
fed  thee  with  manna,  which  thou  knewest  not,  nei- 
ther did  thy  fathers  know,  that  he  might  make 
thee  know  that  man  doth  not  live  by  bread  only, 
but  by  every  word  that  proceedeth  out  of  the 
mouth  of  the  Lord  doth  man  live." — De.  viii.  3,  4. 

"Suffered  thee  to  hunger."  PoorRotha!  the  tears 
ran  warm  from  her  eyes,  mingled  but  honest  tears, 
in  which  the  sense  of  her  wilderness  and  her  hun- 


552  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

ger  was  touched  with  genuine  sorrow  for  her  want 
of  trust  and  her  unwillingness  to  take  up  with  the 
hidden  manna.  Yet  she  believed  in  it  and  prayed 
for  it,  and  was  very  sure  that  when  she  once  should 
come  to  live  upon  it,  it  would  prove  both  sweet  and 
satisfying.  Ah,  this  was  what  she  had  guessed; 
there  were  changes  to  be  wrought  in  herself,  expe- 
riences to  be  attained,  for  the  sake  of  which  she 
had  come  to  this  place.  Well !  let  the  Lord  dispose 
things  as  seemed  to  him  best;  she  would  not  rebel. 
She  would  hope  for  the  good  coming.  The  next 
verse  was  one  well  known. 

"  God  is  our  refuge  and  strength,  a  very  present 
help  in  trouble." — Ps.  xlvi.  1. 

Yes,  Eotha  knew  that.  She  went  on,  to  Jere- 
miah's prophecy  concerning  a  part  of  the  captive 
Jews  carried  away  to  Babylon.  And  truly  she 
seemed  to  herself  in  almost  as  bad  a  case. 

"Thus  saith  the  Lord,  the  God  of  Israel,  Like 
these  good  figs,  so  will  I  acknowledge  them  that 
are  carried  away  captive  of  Judah,  whom  I  have 
sent  out  of  this  place  into  the  land  of  the  Chaldeans 
for  their  good.  For  I  will  set  mine  eyes  upon 
them  for  good,  and  I  will  bring  them  again  to 
their  land;  and  I  will  build  them,  and  not  pull 
them  down;  and  I  will  plant  them,  and  not  pluck 
them  up.  And  I  will  give  them  an  heart  to  know 
me,  that  I  am  the  Lord:  and  they  shall  be  my  peo- 
ple, and  I  will  be  their  God :  for  they  shall  return 
unto  me  with  their  whole  heart." — Jer.  xxiv.  5-7. 

Rotha  bowed  her  head  upon  her  book.     I  am 


ROTHA'S  REFUGE.  553 

content !  she  said  in  herself.  Let  the  Lord  do  even 
this  with  me,  and  take  the  way  that  is  best.  Only 
let  me  come  out  so ! — 

But  the  next  wonderful  words  made  her  cry 
again.  They  cut  so  deep,  even  while  they  prom- 
ised to  heal  so  wholly. 

"And  I  will  bring  the  third  part  through  the 
fire,  and  will  refine  them  as  silver  is  refined,  and 
will  try  them  as  gold  is  tried:  they  shall  call  on 
my  name,  and  I  will  hear  them ;  I  will  say,  It  is 
my  people;  and  they  shall  say,  The  Lord  is  my 
God." — Zach.  xiii.  9. 

If  Rotha's  tears  flowed,  her  heart  did  not  give 
back  from  its  decision.  Yes,  she  repeated,  —  I 
would  rather  be  the  Lord's  tried  gold,  even  at 
such  cost;  at  any  cost.  Must  one  go  through  the 
fire,  before  one  can  say  and  have  a  right  to  say, 
"The  Lord  is  my  God"?  or  does  one  never  want 
to  say  it,  thoroughly,  until  then  ?  But  to  be  the 
Lord's  pure  gold — I  cannot  miss  that.  I  wonder 
if  Mrs.  Mowbray  has  been  through  the  fire  ?  Oh  I 
know  she  has.  Mr.  Southwode  ? — I  think  he  must. 
I  remember  how  very  grave  his  face  used  to  be 
sometimes. 

Here  Rotha's  meditations  were  interrupted.  She 
heard  steps  come  clumping  up  the  stairs,  and  there 
was  a  tap  at  her  door. 

"Prissy's  got  supper  ready,"  said  Mr.  PurcelL 
"  I've  come  up  to  call  you." 

With  which  utterance  he  turned  about  and  went 
down  the  stairs  again.  Rotha  gave  a  loving  look 


554  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

at  her  Bible  and  "  Treasury,"  locked  her  door,  and 
followed  him. 

"  It's  quite  a  ways  to  the  top  o'  the  house,"  re- 
marked Mr.  PurcelL  "  It'd  be  wuss  'n  a  day's  work 
to  go  up  and  down  every  meal." 

"  Nobody  aint  a  goin'  up  and  down  every  meal," 
said  his  wife.  "/  aint,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  How  am  I  to  know,  then,  when  meals  are 
ready  ?  "  Rotha  asked. 

"  I  don'  know,"  said  Mr.  Purcell ;  and  his  wife 
added  nothing.  Botha  began  to  consider  what 
was  her  best  mode  of  action.  This  sort  of  expe- 
rience, she  felt,  would  be  unendurable. 

The  table  was  set  with  coarse  but  clean  cloth 
and  crockery.  I  might  say  much  the  same  of  the 
viands.  The  bread  however  was  very  good,  and 
even  delicate.  Besides  bread  and  butter  there  was 
cold  boiled  pickled  pork,  cold  potatoes,  and  a  plate 
of  raw  onions  cut  up  in  vinegar.  Mr.  Purcell 
helped  Rotha  to  the  two  first-named  articles. 

"  Like  inguns  ?  " 

"Onions?  Yes,  sometimes,"  said  Rotha,  "when 
they  are  cooked." 

"These  is  rareripes.  First  rate — best  thing  on 
table.  Better  'n  if  they  was  cooked.  Try  'em  ?  " 

"No,  thank  you." 

"  I  knowed  she  wouldn't,  Joe,"  said  Mrs.  Purcell, 
setting  down  Rotha's  cup  of  tea.  "  What  us  likes 
wouldn't  suit  the  likes  o'  her.  She's  from  the  City 
o'  Pride.  Us  is  country  folks,  and  don't  know 
nothin'." 


ROTHA'S  REFUGE.  555 

"  I've  a  kind  o'  tender  pity  for  the  folks  as  don't 
know  inguns,"  said  Mr.  Purcell.  "  It's  them  what 
don't  know  nothin'." 

"  She  don't  want  your  pity,  neither,"  returned  his 
wife.  "  I'd  keep  it,  if  I  was  you.  Or  you  may  pity 
her  for  havin'  to  eat  along  with  we;  it's  that  as 
goes  hard." 

"  You  are  making  it  harder  than  necessary,"  said 
Rotha  calmly,  though  her  colour  rose.  "  Please  to 
let  me  and  my  likings  or  dislikings  alone.  There 
is  no  need  to  discuss  them." 

After  which  speech  there  was  a  dead,  ominous 
silence,  which  prevailed  during  a  large  part  of  the 
meal.  This  could  not  be  borne,  Rotha  felt.  She 
broke  the  silence  as  Mrs.  Purcell  gave  her  her  sec- 
ond cup  of  tea. 

"I  have  been  thinking  over  what  you  said  about 
calling  me  to  meals.  I  think  the  best  way  will  be, 
not  to  call  me." 

"How'll  you  get  down  then?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Purcell  sharply. 

"  I  will  come  when  I  am  ready." 

"But  I  don't  keep  no  table  a  standin'.  'Taint 
a  hotel.  If  you'll  eat  when  us  eats,  you  can,  as  Joe 
and  Mis'  Busby  will  have  it  so ;  but  if  you  aint  here 
when  us  sits  down,  there  won't  be  no  other  time. 
I  can't  stand  waitin'  on  nobody." 

"  I  was  going  to  say,"  pursued  Rotha,  "  that  you 
can  set  by  a  plate  for  me  with  whatever  you  have, 
and  I'll  take  it  cold — if  it  is  cold." 

"  Where'll  you  take  it  ?  " 


THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Wherever  I  please.     I  do  not  know." 

"  There  aint  no  place  but  the  kitchen." 

Rotha  was  silent,  trying  to  keep  temper  and 
patience. 

"And  when  I've  got  my  room  cleaned  up,"  MTS. 
Purcell  went  on  with  increasing  heat,  "  I  aint  a  goin' 
to  have  nobody  walkin'  in  to  make  a  muss  again. 
This  room's  my  place,  and  Mis'  Busby  nor  no- 
body else  hasn't  got  no  right  in  it.  I  aint  a  goin' 
to  be  nobody's  servant,  neither;  and  if  folks  from 
the  City  o'  Pride  comes  visitin'  we,  they's  got  to  do 
as  us  does.  I  never  asked  'em,  nor  Joe  neither." 

"Hush,  hush,  Prissy!"  said  her  husband  sooth- 
ingly. 

"I  didn't — and  you  didn't,"  returned  his  wife. 

"  But  Mis'  Busby  has  the  house,  and  it  aint  as 
if  it  warn't  her'n;  and  the  young  woman  won't 
make  you  no  trouble  she  can  help." 

"  She  won't  make  me  none  she  cant  help,"  said 
Mrs.  Purcell.  "Us  has  to  work,  and  I  mean  to 
work;  but  us  has  got  work  enough  to  do  already, 
and  I  aint  a  goin'  to  take  no  more,  for  Mis'  Busby 
nor  nobody.  You're  just  soft,  Joe,  and  you  let  any- 
body talk  you  over.  I  aint." 

"You've  got  a  soft  side  to  you,  though,"  re- 
sponded Joe,  with  a  calm  twinkle  in  his  eye.  "  I'd 
have  a  rough  time  of  it,  if  I  hadn't  found  that  out." 

A  laugh  answered.  The  sudden  change  in  the 
woman's  lowering  face  astonished  Rotha.  Her  brows 
uuknit,  the  lines  of  irritation  smoothed  out,  a  genial, 
merry,  amused  expression  went  with"  her  laugh  over 


ROTHA'S  REFUGE.  557 

to  her  husband;  and  the  talk  flowed  over  into  easier 
channels.  Mr.  Purcell  even  tried  after  his  manner 
to  be  civil  to  the  stranger;  but  Rotha's  supper 
choked  her;  and  as  soon  as  she  could  she  escaped 
from  the  table  and  the  onions  and  went  to  her  room 
again. 

Evening  was  falling,  but  Rotha  was  not  afraid 
any  more.  Her  corner  room  under  the  roof  seemed 
to  her  now  one  of  the  safest  places  in  the  world. 
Not  undefended,  nor  unwatched,  nor  alone.  She 
shut  and  locked  her  door,  and  felt  that  inside  that 
door  things  were  pleasant  enough.  Beyond  it, 
however,  the  prospect  had  grown  very  sombre,  and 
the  girl  was  greatly  disheartened.  She  sat  down 
by  the  open  window,  and  watched  the  light  fade 
and  the  spring  day  finish  its  course.  The  air  was 
balmier  than  ever,  even  warm;  the  lights  were 
tender,  the  shadows  soft ;  the  hues  in  earth  and  sky 
delicate  and  varied  and  dainty  exceedingly.  And 
as  the  evening  closed  in  and  the  shades  grew  deeper, 
there  was  but  a  change  from  one  manner  of  loveli- 
ness to  another;  till  the  outlines  of  the  tulip  tree 
were  dimly  distinguishable,  and  the  stars  were 
blinking  down  upon  her  with  that  misty  bright- 
ness which  is  all  spring  mists  and  vapours  allow 
them.  Yes,  up  here  it  was  pleasant.  But  how  in 
the  world,  Rotha  questioned,  was  she  to  get  along 
with  the  further  conditions  of  her  life  here  ?  And 
what  would  she  become,  she  herself,  in  these 
coarse  surroundings  of  companionship  and  labour  ? 
Either  it  will  ruin  me,  or  it  will  do  me  a  great  deal 


558  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

of  good,  thought  she.  If  I  do  not  lose  all  I  have 
gained  at  Mrs.  Mowbray's,  and  sink  down  into  un- 
refined and  hard  ways  of  acting  and  feeling,  it  will 
be  because  I  keep  close  to  the  Lord's  hand  and  he 
makes  me  gentler  and  purer  and  humbler  and 
sweeter  by  all  these  things.  Can  he  ?  I  suppose 
he  can,  and  that  he  means  to  do  it.  I  must  take 
care  I  put  no  hindrance.  I  had  better  live  in 
the  study  of  the  Bible. 

Very,  very  sorrowful  tears  and  drooping  of  heart 
accompanied  these  thoughts;  for  to  Botha's  fancy 
she  was  an  exile,  for  an  indefinite  time,  from  every- 
thing pleasant  in  the  way  of  home  or  society. 
When  at  last  she  rose  up  and  shut  the  window, 
meaning  to  strike  a  light  and  go  on  with  her  Bi- 
ble study,  she  found  that  in  the  disagreeable  ex- 
citement of  the  talk  at  supper  she  had  forgotten  to 
provide  herself  with  lamp  or  candle.  She  could 
not  go  down  in  the  dark  through  the  empty  house 
to  fetch  them  now;  and  with  a  momentary  shiver 
she  reflected  that  she  could  not  get  them  in  the 
night  if  she  wanted  them.  Then  she  remembered 
— "The  darkness  and  the  light  are  both  alike  to 
Thee."  What  matter,  whether  she  had  a  lamp  or 
not?  The  chariots  of  fire  and  horses  of  fire  that 
made  a  guard  round  Elisha,  were  independent  of 
all  earthly  help  or  illumination.  Rotha  grew  quiet. 
As  she  could  do  nothing  else,  she  undressed  by  the 
light  of  the  stars  and  went  to  bed;  and  slept  as 
sweetly  as  those  who  are  watched  by  angels  should, 
the  long  night  through. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

ROTHA'S    WORK. 

OPRING  had  one  of  her  variable  humours,  and 
O  the  next  day  shewed  a  change.  When  Rotha 
awoke,  the  light  was  veiled  and  a  soft  rain  was 
thickly  falling.  Shut  up  by  the  weather  now !  was 
the  first  thought.  However,  she  got  up,  giving 
thanks  for  her  sweet,  guarded  sleep,  and  made  her 
toilet;  then,  seeing  it  depended  on  her  alone  to 
take  care  of  her  room,  she  put  it  carefully  in  order 
so  far  as  was  possible.  It  was  early  still,  she  was 
sure,  though  Rotha  had  no  watch;  neither  voice 
nor  stir  was  to  be  heard  anywhere;  and  turning 
her  back  upon  her  stripped  bed,  the  disorder  of 
which  annoyed  her,  she  sat  down  to  her  Bible 
study.  It  is  all  I  have  got !  thought  she.  I  must 
make  of  it  all  I  can. — May  did  not  give  her  so  much 
help  this  morning;  the  rain  drops  pattered  thick 
and  fast  on  leaf  and  window  pane ;  the  air  was  not 
^old,  yet  it  was  not  genial  either,  and  Rotha  felt  a 
chill  creep  over  her.  There  was  no  way  of  having 
a  fire  up  there,  if  she  had  wanted  one.  She  opened 
her  beloved  books,  to  try  and  forget  other  things 
if  she  could.  She  would  not  go  down  stairs  until 

it  was  certain  that  breakfast  would  be  near  ready. 
'559) 


560  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Carrying  on  the  line  of  study  broken  off  yester- 
day, the  first  words  to  which  she  was  directed  were 
those  in  2  Cor.  iv.  17,  18. 

"  Our  light  affliction,  which  is  but  for  a  moment, 
worketh  for  us  a  far  more  exceeding  and  eternal 
weight  of  glory;  while  we  look  not  at  the  things 
which  are  seen,  but  at  the  things  which  are  un- 
seen— " 

Poor  Rotha  at  this  immediately  rebelled.  Noth- 
ing in  the  words  was  pleasant  to  her.  She  was 
wont  always  to  live  in  the  present,  not  in  the  fu- 
ture; and  she  would  be  willing  to  have  the  glory 
yonder  less  great,  so  it  were  not  conditioned  by 
the  trouble  here.  And  with  her  young  life  pulses, 
warm  and  vigorous  as  they  were,  to  look  away  from 
the  seen  to  the  unseen  things  seemed  well  nigh  im- 
possible and  altogether  undesirable.  It  was  com- 
fort that  she  wanted,  and  not  renunciation.  She 
was  missing  her  friends  and  her  home  and  her 
pursuits;  she  was  in  barren  exile,  amid  a  social 
desert;  a  captive  in  bonds  that  though  not  of  iron 
were  still,  to  her,  nearly  as  strong.  She  wanted 
deliverance  and  gladness;  or  at  least,  manna;  not 
to  look  away  from  all  and  find  her  solace  in  a  dis- 
tant vision  of  better  things. 

1  suppose  it  is  because  I  have  so  little  acquain- 
tance witli  things  unseen,  thought  Rotha  in  dismal 
candidness.  And  after  getting  thoroughly  chilled 
in  spirit,  she  turned  her  pages  for  something  else. 
The  next  passages  referred  to  concerned  the  bles- 
sedness of  being  with  Christ,  and  the  rest  he  gives 


ROTHA'S  WORK.  561 

after  earth's  turmoil  is  over.  It  was  not  over  yet 
for  Rotha,  and  she  did  not  wish  it  to  be  over;  life 
was  sweet,  even  up  here  in  her  room  under  the  roof. 
How  soft  was  the  rain-drop  patter  on  the  outer 
world!  how  beautiful  the  glitter  of  the  rain- var- 
nished leaves !  how  lovely  the  tints  and  hues  in 
the  shady  depths  of  the  great  tulip  tree !  how  cheery 
the  bird  song  which  was  going  on  in  spite  of  every- 
thing !  Or  perhaps  the  birds  found  no  fault  with 
the  rain.  I  want  to  be  like  that,  said  Rotha  to  her- 
self; not  to  be  out  of  the  storm,  but  to  be  able  to 
sing  through  it.  And  that  is  what  people  are  meant 
to  do,  I  think. 

The  words  in  the  twelfth  of  Hebrews  were  some 
help  to  her;  verses  10  and  11  especially;  confess- 
ing that  for  the  time  being,  trouble  was  trouble, 
yet  a  bitter  root  out  of  which  sweet  fruit  might 
grow;  in  "them  which  are  exercised  thereby." 

"  Wherefore  lift  up  the  hands  which  hang  down, 
and  the  feeble  knees." — 

Courage,  hope,  energy,  activity;  forbidding  to 
despond  or  to  be  idle;  the  words  did  her  good. 
She  lingered  over  them,  praying  for  the  good  fruits 
to  grow,  and  forming  plans  for  her  "lifted-up" 
hands  to  take  hold  of.  And  then  the  first  verses 
of  the  first  chapter  of  James  fairly  laid  a  plaister  on 
the  wounds  of  her  heart.  "  Count  it  all  joy."  "  The 
trying  of  your  faith  worketh  patience.  But  let  pa- 
tience have  her  perfect  work,  that  ye  may  be  per- 
fect and  entire,  wanting  nothing." 

Rotha  almost  smiled  at  the  page  which  so  seemed 


562  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

to  smile  at  her ;  and  took  her  lesson  then  and  there. 
Patience.  Quiet  on-waiting  on  God.  That  was  her 
part ;  the  good  issues  and  the  good  fruit  he  would 
take  care  of.  Only  patience !  Yes,  to  be  anything 
but  patient  would  shew  direct  want  of  faith  in  him 
and  want  of  trust  in  his  promise.  And  then  the 
words  in  1  Peter  i.  6,  7,  gave  the  blessed  outcome 
of  faith  that  has  stood  the  trial;  and  finally  came 
the  declaration — 

"As  many  as  I  love,  I  rebuke  and  chasten;  be 
zealous  therefore,  and  repent." 

Rotha  fell  on  her  knees  and  prayed  earnestly  for 
help  to  act  in  accordance  with  all  these  words.  As 
she  rose  from  her  knees,  the  thought  crossed  her, 
that  already  she  could  see  some  of  the  good  work- 
ing of  her  troubles ;  they  were  driving  her  to  God 
and  his  word;  and  whatever  did  that  must  be  a 
blessing. 

She  ran  down  stairs,  quite  ready  now  for  her 
breakfast.  Entering  the  kitchen,  she  stood  still 
in  uncertainty.  No  table  set,  no  cooking  going 
on,  the  place  in  perfect  order,  and  Mrs.  Purcell 
picking  over  beans  at  the  end  of  the  table.  The 
end  of  the  table  was  filled  with  a  great  heap  of 
the  beans,  and  as  she  looked  them  over  Mrs.  Purcell 
swept  them  into  a  tin  pan  in  her  lap.  She  did 
not  pause  or  look  up.  Rotha  hesitated  a  moment. 

"  Good  morning ! "  she  said  then.     "  Am  I  late?" 

"I  don'  know  what  folks  in  the  City  o'  Pride 
calls  early.  'Thout  knowing  that,  I  couldn't  say." 

"  But  is  breakfast  over  ?  " 


ROTHA'S  WORK.  563 

"Joe  and  me,  us  has  had  our  breakfast  two  hours 
ago." 

"  I  did  not  know  it  was  so  late !  I  had  no  no- 
tion what  o'clock  it  was." 

"Joe  said,  he  guessed  you  was  sleepin'  over. 
That's  what  he  said." 

"  Well,  have  you  kept  any  breakfast  for  me,  Mrs. 
Purcell?" 

"  I  didn't  set  by  nothin'  in  particular.  I  didn't 
know  as  you'd  be  down  'fore  dinner.  You  didn't 
say." 

Rotha  waited  a  minute,  to  let  patience  have  a 
chance  to  get  her  footing;  she  seemed  to  be  tot- 
tering. Then  she  said,  and  she  said  it  quietly, 

"  Where  can  I  get  something  to  eat  ?  " 

"I  don'  know,"  said  the  woman  indifferently. 

"  But  I  must  have  some  breakfast,"  said  Rotha. 

"  Must  you  ?  Well,  I  don'  know  how  you'll  get 
it.  My  hands  is  full." 

"You  must  give  it  to  me,"  said  Rotha  firmly. 
"  I  will  take  it  cold,  or  any  way  you  please ;  but  I 
must  have  something." 

Mrs.  Purcell  sat  silent  at  her  bean  picking,  and 
there  was  a  look  of  defiance  on  her  handsome  face 
which  nearly  put  Rotha's  patience  to  a  shameful 
rout.  She  hardly  knew  how  to  go  on;  and  was 
extremely  glad  to  see  Mr.  Purcell  come  in  from 
the  lower  kitchen. 

"  Wet  mornin' ! "  said  Mr.  Purcell,  with  a  lit- 
tle jerk  of  his  head  which  did  duty  for  a  salu- 
tation. 


564  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT 

"Mr.  Purcell,"  said  Eotha,  "I  am  glad  you  are 
come ;  there  is  a  question  to  be  decided  here." 

"  No  there  aint;  it's  decided,"  put  in  Mr.  Purcell's 
wife.  The  man  looked  as  if  he  would  like  to  be 
left  out  of  the  question;  but  with  a  resigned  air 
he  asked,  "  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Whether,  while  I  am  in  this  house,  I  can  have 
my  proper  meals,  and  have  them  properly." 

"You  can  have  your  meals,  if  you'll  come  to 
'em,"  said  Mrs.  Purcell,  picking  her  beans. 

Kotha  was  too  vexed  to  speak  again,  and  looked 
to  the  man. 

"Well — you  see,"  he  began  conciliatingly,  as 
much  towards  his  wife  as  towards  her,  Rotha 
thought, — "  you  see,  Prissy  has  her  work,  and  she 
has  a  lot  of  it;  and  she  likes  to  do  it  reg'lar.  It 
kind  o'  puts  her  out,  you  see,  to  be  gettin'  break- 
fast all  along  the  mornin'.  Now  she's  gettin'  her 
dinner.  She's  like  a  spider; — let  her  alone,  and 
put  nothin'  in  her  way,  and  she'll  spin  as  pretty 
a  web  as  you'll  see ;  but  if  you  tangle  it  up,  it'll 
never  get  straight  again." 

Mrs.  Purcell  kept  diligently  picking  her  beans 
over  and  sweeping  them  into  her  pan. 

"  You  do  not  meet  the  question  yet,"  said  Rotha 
haughtily. 

"  Well,  you  see,  the  best  way  would  be  for  you 
to  be  along  at  meal  times;  when  they's  hot  and 
ready  on  the  table.  Then  one  more  wouldn't  make 
so  much  difference." 

"  I  have  no  way  of  knowing  when  the  meals  are 


ROTHA'S  WORK.  565 

ready.  If  Mrs.  Purcell  will  set  by  some  for  me 
on  a  plate,  and  a  cup  of  coffee,  I  will  take  it,  not 
good  nor  hot." 

"My  victuals  aint  bad  when  they's  cold,"  put 
in  Mrs.  Purcell  here. 

"Well,  Prissy,  can't  you  do  that?"  asked  her 
husband. 

"  You  can  do  it  if  you  like,"  she  said,  getting 
up  at  last  from  the  table,  whence  the  great  heap 
of  beans  had  disappeared.  "  It  ain't  nothin'  to  me 
what  you  do." 

Mr.  Purcell  demanded  no  more  of  a  concession 
from  his  housekeeper,  but  went  forthwith  to  one 
cupboard  after  another  and  fetched  forth  a  plate 
and  cup  and  saucer,  knife  and  fork  and  spoon,  and 
finally  bread,  a  platter  with  cold  fried  pork  on  it, 
and  some  butter.  He  had  not  washed  his  hands 
before  shewing  this  civility;  and  Kotha  looked  on 
in  doubtful  disgust. 

"  Where's  the  coffee,  Prissy  ?  " 

"The  last  of  it  went  down  your  throat.  You 
never  leaves  a  drop  in  the  coffee  pot,  and  wouldn't 
if  there  was  a  half  a  gallon.  What's  the  use  o' 
askin'  me,  when  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  Can  I  have  a  glass  of  milk  ?  "  said  Eotha. 

The  milk  was  furnished,  and  she  began  to  make 
a  very  good  breakfast  on  bread  and  milk. 

"Aint  there  a  bit  o'  pie,  Prissy?"  asked  Mr. 
Purcell. 

"You've  swallowed  it.  There  aint  no  chance 
for  nothiii'  when  you're  round." 


566  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Upon  which  Mr.  Purcell  laughed  and  went  out, 
glad  no  doubt  to  have  the  matter  of  breakfast  dis- 
posed of  without  any  more  trouble.  But  Rotha  eat 
slowly  and  thoughtfully.  Breakfast  was  disposed 
of,  but  not  dinner.  How  was  she  to  go  on  ?  She 
meditated,  tried  to  gather  patience,  and  at  last  spoke. 

"  It  is  best  to  arrange  this  thing,"  she  said. 
"  Meals  come  three  times  a  day.  If  you  will  call 
me,  Mrs.  Purcell,  I  will  come.  If  you  will  not  do 
that,  will  you  set  by  things  for  me  ?  " 

"  Things  settin'  round  draws  the  flies.  We'd  be 
so  thick  with  flies,  we  couldn't  see  to  eat." 

"  What  way  will  you  take,  then  ?  " 

"  I  don'  know !  " 

All  the  while  she  was  actively  and  deftly  busy ; 
putting  her  beans  in  water,  preparing  her  table, 
and  now  sifting  flour.  Rotha  came  and  stood  at 
one  end  of  the  table. 

"  I  should  not  have  thought,"  she  said,  "  that 
anybody  that  loved  the  gospel  of  John,  would  treat 
me  so." 

A  metallic  laugh  answered  her,  which  she  could 
not  help  thinking  covered  some  feeling.  The 
woman's  words  however  were  uncompromising. 

"  I  didn't  say  I  loved  no  gospel  of  John." 

"  No,  not  in  words ;  but  the  little  book  tells  of  it- 
self that  somebody  has  loved  it." 

"  I'll  put  it  away,  where  it  won't  tell  nothin'." 

"  My  aunt  pays  you  for  my  board,"  Rotha  went 
on,  "  and  she  expects  that  you  will  make  me 
comfortable. 


ROTHA'S  WORK.  567 

"  What  does  she  pay  for  your  board?"  said  Mrs. 
Purcell,  lifting  up  her  head  and  flashing  her  black 
eyes  at  Botha. 

"  I  do  not  know  what.  I  did  not  read  her  letter. 
You  must  know." 

"  She  don't  pay  nothin'  for  you! "  said  the  woman 
scornfully.  "  That's  Mis'  Busby !  Shes  a  good  Chris- 
tian, and  that's  the  way  she  does.  She'll  go  to 
church,  and  say  her  prayers  regular,  and  be  a  very 
holy  woman ;  but  she  won't  pay  nobody  nothin'  if  she 
can  help  it ;  and  she  thinks  us'll  do  it,  sooner  'n  lose 
the  place,  and  she  can  put  you  off  on  us  for  nothin' 
— don't  ye  see  ?  So  much  savin'  to  her,  and  she 
can  put  the  money  in  the  collection.  I  don't  be- 
lieve in  bein'  no  Christian !  Us  wouldn't  do  the 
like  o'  that,  and  us  aint  no  Christians;  and  I  like 
our  kind  better  'n  her  kind." 

Botha  stood  petrified. 

"  You  must  be  mistaken,"  she  said  at  length. 
"  My  aunt  may  not  have  mentioned  it,  but  it  is  of 
course  that  she  pays  you  for  your  time  and  trouble, 
as  well  as  for  what  I  cost  you." 

"  You  don't  cost  her  nothin',"  said  Mrs.  Purcell. 
"That's  all  she  cares  for.  Us  knows  Mis'  Busby. 
Maybe  you  don't." 

The  last  words  were  scornful.  Botha  hardly 
heeded  them,  the  facts  of  the  case -had  cut  her  so 
deep.  "  Can  it  be  possible !  "  she  exclaimed  in  a 
stupefied  way.  Mrs.  Purcell  glanced  at  her. 

"  You  didn't  know  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not.     Nothing  would  have  made  me 


568  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

come,  if  I  had.  Nothing  would  have  made  me  ! 
But  I  am  dependent  on  my  aunt.  I  have  no  money 
of  my  own."  Two  bitter  tears  made  their  way  into 
Rotha's  eyes.  "  Of  course  you  do  not  want  to  take 
trouble  for  me,"  she  went  on.  "I  cannot  much 
blame  you." 

"  Me  and  Joe  has  to  live  and  get  along,  as  'tis ; 
and  it  takes  a  sight  o'  work  to  take  care  o'  Joe. 
'Taint  feedin'  no  chicken,  to  feed  Joe  Purcell;  and 
Prissy  Purcell  has  a  good  appetite  her  own  self; 
and  Joe,  he  won't  eat  no  bread  as  soon  as  it's  be- 
ginnin'  to  get  dry;  an'  I  has  to  bake  bread  all 
along  the  week.  An'  Joe,  he's  always  gettiu'  into 
the  bushes  and  tearin'  his  things,  and  he  won't  go 
with  no  holes  in  'em;  and  nights  I  has  to  sit  up 
and  put  patches.  I  put  patches  with  my  eyes  shut, 
'cause  I's  so  sleepy  1  can't  hold  'em  open.  An'  he 
wears  the  greatest  sight  o'  clothes  of  any  man  in 
Taufield.  He  wears  three  shirts;  there's  his  red 
flannel  one,  and  one  o'  unbleached  muslin — you 
know  that  is  warm,  next  his  skin;  'cause  he  won't 
have  the  flannel  next  his  skin ;  and  then  there  goes 
a  white  shirt  over  all ;  and  the  cuffs  and  the  collar 
must  be  starched  and  stiif  and  shiny,  or  he  aiut 
satisfied.  I  tells  him  it  aint  no  use ;  it  won't  stay 
so  over  five  minutes;  but  anyhow,  he  is  satisfied.'' 

"  I  shouldn't  think  it  was  wholesome  to  wear  so 
many  clothes,"  said  Rotha. 

"  He  thinks  'tis." 

"  You  should  coax  him  out  of  it." 

"  Prissy  Pin-cell  has  tried  that,  and  she  won't  try 


ROTHA'S  WORK.  569 

it  no  more.  There  aint  no  coaxin'  Joe.  If  he 
wants  to  do  a  thing,  he'll  do  it  his  own  self; 
and  if  he  don't  want  to  do  it,  you  can't  move  him." 

Rotha  paused  a  minute,  to  let  the  subject  of  Joe 
Puree  11  drop. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Purcell,"  she  said  then,  "  I  am  very 
sorry  I  am  on  your  hands.  I  do  not  know  exactly 
what  to  do.  I  will  write  to  my  aunt,  and  tell  her 
how  I  am  situated,  and  how  you  are  situated;  but 
till  her  answer  comes,  how  shall  we  do  ?  " 

"  She  won't  send  no  answer !  "  said  Mrs.  Purcell, 
in  a  much  modified  manner  however.  "  Us  knows 
her,  Joe  and  me.  She's  got  what  she  wants,  and 
she's  satisfied.  She  don't  care  for  my  trouble,  uor 
for  your  trouble.  She's  great  on  savin',  Mis'  Busby 
is.  She  don't  never  pay  nothin'  she  hadn't  need  to." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Rotha  bitterly.  "  I  will 
see  if  I  can  find  some  way  of  earning  the  money, 
Mrs.  Purcell,  so  that  I  can  pay  you  for  the  cost  and 
trouble  I  put  you  to.  But  I  must  have  time  for 
that;  and  meanwhile,  what  will  you  do?  " 

"  Us  wouldn't  think  so  much  of  it,"  Mrs.  Purcell 
went  on,  "if  she  didn't  set  up  for  bein'  somethin' 
o'  extras.  I  don't  make  no  count  o'  no  such 
Christians.  Mis'  Busby  wouldn't  miss  the  Com- 
munion ! — "  And  the  speaker  looked  up  at  Rotha, 
as  if  to  see  what  she  thought  on  the  subject. 

"  There  are  different  sorts  of  Christians,"  said  Ro- 
tha. "Meanwhile,  how  shall  we  arrange  things, 
Mrs.  Purcell?" 

"Will  all  sorts  of  Christians  get  to  heaven,"  was 


570  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Mrs.  Purcell's  response,  the  query  put  with  her 
sharp  black  eyes  as  well  as  with  her  lips. 

"Why  no!  Of  course  not.  Christians  are  not 
all  alike ;  but  it  is  only  true  Christians  whom  the 
Lord  will  call  his  own." 

"  How  aint  they  alike  ?  how  is  they  different  ?  " 

"Keal  Christians?  Well — some  of  them  are  ig- 
norant, and  some  are  wise.  Some  have  had  good 
teachings  and  good  helpers,  and  some  have  had 
none ;  it  makes  a  difference." 

"  I  thought  they  was  all  one." 

"  So  they  are,  in  the  main  things.  They  all  love 
Christ,  and  trust  in  his  blood,  and  do  his  will.  So 
far  as  they  know  it,  at  least.  '  Whosoever  shall  do 
the  will  of  my  Father  which  is  in  heaven,  the  same 
is  my  brother,  and  sister,  and  mother.'  So  Jesus 
said,  when  he  was  upon  earth." 

Mrs.  Purcell  stopped  in  what  she  was  doing  and 
looked  up  at  Rotha.  "That  aint  in  my  'little 
blue  John,'"  she  said. 

"  No,  I  think  the  words  are  in  Matthew." 

"  And  aint  no  other  people  Christians,  but  them 
as  is  like  that  ?  " 

"You  know  what  is  written  in  the  fourteenth 
chapter  of  John — '  He  that  hath  my  command- 
ments and  Iceepeth  them,  he  it  is  that  loveth  me.' " 

"  And  aint  there  no  other  sort  ?  "  inquired  Mrs. 
Purcell,  still  peering  into  Rotha's  eyes. 

"Of  Christians?  Certainly  not.  Not  of  real 
Christians.  How  could  there  be  ?  " 

"  Then  I  don't  believe  there  aint  none." 


ROTHA'S  WORK.  571 

"  0  yes,  there  are !  Many,  many.  True  believ- 
ers and  servants  of  the  Lord  Jesus." 

"  Then  Prissy  Purcell  never  see  one  of  'em,"  said 
the  woman  decidedly. 

It  shot  through  Botha's  mind,  how  careful  she 
must  be.  This  woman's  whole  faith  in  Christianity 
might  depend  on  how  she  behaved  herself.  She 
stood  soberly  thinking,  and  then  came  back  to  the 
immediate  matter  in  hand. 

"  1  will  pay  you,  Mrs.  Purcell,  for  my  cost  and 
trouble,  if  ever  I  can,"  she  said.  "That  is  all  I  can 
say.  I  would  go  away,  if  I  could.  I  do  not  want 
to  be  here." 

"  It's  hard  on  you,  that's  a  fact,"  said  the  woman. 
"Well,  us  won't  make  it  no  harder,  Joe  and  me. 
We  aint  starvin'.  Joe,  he's  money  laid  up ;  and  us 
always  has  victuals  to  eat;  victuals  enough;  and 
good,  what  they  is,  for  Joe  won't  have  nothiu'  else. 
I  don'  know  if  you  can  like  'em.  But  I  can't  go  up 
all  them  stairs." 

"  I  will  take  care  of  my  own  room.  Cannot  you 
call  me  when  dinner  is  ready,  in  some  way  ?  " 

"Joe  can  holler  at  you.  He  can  go  out  and 
holler." 

"  I'll  have  my  window  open,  and  I  shall  hear. 
And  some  day,  Mrs.  Purcell,  I  will  pay  you." 

"  All  right,"  said  the  woman,  whose  face  was 
completely  cleared  up  and  looked  pleasanter  than 
Eotha  could  ever  have  believed  possible.  "  Prissy 
Purcell  will  get  you  a  good  dinner." 

So  the  storm  was  laid;  and  Kotha  went  slowly 


572  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

up  stairs,  feeling  devoutly  thankful  for  that,  but 
very,  very  sorrowful  on  her  own  account.  Her, 
fancy  was  busy,  all  the  while  she  was  putting  her 
room  in  order,  with  the  possible  future ;  feeling  ut- 
terly doubtful  of  her  aunt,  in  every  possible  respect, 
and  very  sad  and  depressed  in  view  of  her  condi- 
tion and  in  view  of  the  extreme  difficulty  of  mend- 
ing it.  Then  flashed  into  her  mind  what  she  had 
been  saying  down  stairs;  and  then,  what  she  had 
been  reading  and  thinking  last  night.  To  do  her 
work,  to  trust  the  Lord,  and  to  be  content,  were  the 
duties  that  lay  nearest  to  hand. 

The  duties  were  far  easier  to  see  than  to  fulfil; 
however,  Kotha  took  hold  of  the  easiest  first,  and 
prayed  her  way  toward  the  others.  She  got  out 
her  sewing ;  obviously,  Mrs.  Busby  knew  what  she 
was  about  when  she  provided  those  calico  dresses. 
The  stuff  was  strong  and  troublesome  to  sew ;  the 
needle  went  through  hard.  Eotha  sewed  on  it  all 
day ;  and  indeed  for  many  days  more.  She  kept  at 
her  work  diligently,  as  I  said,  praying  her  way 
toward  perfect  trust  and  quiet  content.  In  her  sol- 
itude she  made  her  Bible  her  companion;  one  may 
easily  have  a  worse ;  and  setting  it  open  at  some 
word  of  command  or  promise,  she  refreshed  herself 
with  a  look  at  it  from  time  to  time,  and  while  her 
needle  flew,  turned  over  the  words  in  her  mind  and 
wrought  them  into  prayer.  And  indeed  Rotha  had 
loved  her  Bible  before ;  but  after  two  weeks  of  this 
way  of  life  she  loved  it  after  a  new  fashion,  such  as 
she  had  never  known.  It  became  sweet  iuexpres- 


ROTHA'S  WORK.  573 

sibly,  and  living;  so  that  she  seemed  to  hear  the 
words  spoken  to  her  from  heaven.  And  those  days 
of  solitary  work  grew  into  some  of  the  loveliest 
days  Rotha  had  ever  seen.  She  would  take  her 
"Treasury,"  choose  some  particular  thought  or 
promise  to  start  with,  and  from  that  go  through 
a  series  of  passages,  explaining,  elucidating,  il- 
lustrating, enjoining,  conditioning,  applying,  the 
original  word.  The  care  of  her  room,  and  carry- 
ing water  up  and  down,  gave  her  some  exercise; 
not  enough;  but  Rotha  would  not  indulge  herself 
with  out  of  door  amusement  till  her  mantua  mak- 
ing was  done. 

She  hoped  for  some  temporary  release  from  her 
prison  when  Sunday  came.  She  was  disappointed. 
May  sent  another  pouring  rain,  and  no  going  out 
was  to  be  thought  of. 

"  Where  do  you  go  to  church  ?  when  the  sun 
shines,"  asked  Rotha,  as  she  sat  at  the  breakfast- 
table  and  looked  at  the  rain  driving  past  the  win- 
dow. Silence  answered  her  at  first. 

"Where  do  you  go,  Joe?"  repeated  his  wife,  with 
a  laugh.  "Us  is  wicked  folks,  Miss  Carpenter. 
Joe,  he  don't  like  to  tell  on  hisself ;  but  'taint  no 
worse  to  tell  'u  not  to  tell.  So  Prissy  Purcell 
thinks." 

"Warn't  the  Sabbath  made  for  rest?"  Joe  in- 
quired now,  with  a  gleam  in  his  eyes. 

"  For  rest  from  our  own  work,"  said  Rotha  won- 
deringly. 

"Prissy  and  me,  we  haint  no  other;  and  it's  a 


574  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

blessin'  we  haven't,  for  we  get  powerful  tired  at 
that.  Aint  that  so,  Prissy  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  go  to  church  anywhere  ?  " 

"  Aint  anywheres  to  go !  "  said  Joe.  "  Aint  no 
church  nowheres,  short  o'  Tanfield;  and  there's  a 
difficulty.  Suppos'n'  I  tackled  up  the  bosses  and 
went  to  Tanfield;  by  the  time  we  got  there,  and 
heerd  a  sermon,  and  come  back,  and  untackled, 
and  put  the  hosses  up  and  cleaned  myself  again, 
my  day  o'  rest  'ud  be  pretty  much  nowhere.  An' 
I  don'  know  which  sermon  I'd  want  to  hear,  o'  the 
three,  if  I  was  there.  I  aint  no  Episcopal ;  and  I 
never  did  hold  with  the  Methody's;  and  'tother 
man,  I'd  as  lieve  set  up  a  dip  candle  and  have  it 
preach  to  me.  Looks  like  it,  too." 

Rotha  was  in  silent  dismay.  Tanfield  was  too 
far  to  go  on  foot  and  alone.  Not  even  Sunday? 
I  am  afraid  a  good  part  of  that  Sunday  was  wasted 
in  tears. 

The  next  morning  brought  a  fresh  difficulty.  It 
suddenly  flashed  upon  Rotha  that  she  must  have 
some  clothes  washed. 

That  she  should  ask  Mrs.  Purcell  to  do  it,  was 
out  of  the  question.  That  she  should  hire  some- 
body else  to  do  it,  was  equally  out  of  the  question. 
There  remained — her  own  two  hands. 

Her  hands.  Must  she  put  them  into  the  wash 
tub?  Must  they  be  roughened  and  reddened  by 
hard  work  in  hot  and  cold  water?  I  am  afraid 
pride  had  something  to  say  here,  besides  the  fas- 
tidious delicacy  of  refinement  to  which  for  a  long 


ROTHA'S  WORK.  575 

while  Rotha  bad  been  accustomed,  and  which  ex- 
actly suited  the  nature  that  was  born  with  the 
girl.  She  went  through  a  hard  struggle  and  a 
painful  one,  before  she  could  take  meekly  what 
was  put  upon  her.  But  it  was  put  upon  her; 
there  was  no  other  way ;  and  there  is  no  mistake 
and  no  oversight  in  God's  dealings  with  his  chil- 
dren. What  he  does  not  want  them  to  do,  he  does 
not  give  them  to  do.  It  cost  Rotha  a  good  while 
of  her  time  that  morning,  but  at  last  she  did  see  it, 
and  then  she  accepted  it.  If  God  gave  it  to  her  to 
do,  there  could  be  no  evil  in  the  doing  of  it,  and 
no  hurt,  and  no  disgrace.  What  she  could  do  for 
God,  was  therewith  lifted  up  out  of  the  sphere  of 
the  low  and  common.  Even  the  censers  of  Korah's 
wicked  company  were  holy,  because  they  had  been 
used  for  the  Lord;  much  more  simple  service  from 
a  believing  heart.  After  a  while  Rotha's  mind 
swung  quite  clear  of  all  its  embarrassments,  and 
she  saw  her  duty  clear  and  took  it  up  willingly. 
She  went  down  at  once  then  to  the  kitchen,  where 
Mrs.  Purcell  was  flying  about  with  double  activity. 
It  certainly  seemed  that  the  rest  of  the  Sunday 
had  added  wings  to  her  heels. 

"Do  you  wash  this  morning,  Mrs.  Purcell?" 

"  Yes.  I  aint  one  o'  them  as  likes  shovin'  it  off 
till  the  end  o'  the  week.  If  I  can't  wash  Monday, 
Prissy  Purcell  aint  good  to  live  with." 

"When  will  be  a  convenient  time  for  me  to 
do  my  washing  ?  " 

"Ha'  you  things  to  wash ?  " 


576  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"Yes,  I  am  sorry  to  say.  You  will  lend  me  a 
tub,  and  a  little  soap,  won't  you  ?  " 

".  I  don'  know  whether  I  will  or  not.  Suppos'n1 
you've  got  the  tub,  do  you  know  how  to  get  your 
things  clean  ?  I  don'  believe  you  never  done  it." 

"  No,  I  have  never  done  it.     But  I  can  learn." 

"  I  guess  it'd  be  more  trouble  to  learn  you,  than 
to  do  the  things.  You  fetch  'em  here,  and  I'll  do 
'em  my  own  self." 

"But  I  cannot  pay  you  a  cent  for  it,  Mrs.  Purcell; 
not  now,  at  least.  You'll  have  to  take  it  on  trust, 
if  you  do  this  for  me." 

"All  right,"  said  Prissy.  "You  go  fetch  the 
things,  'cause  I'm  bound  to  have  my  tubs  out  o' 
the  way  before  dinner." 

Rotha  obeyed,  wondering  and  thankful.  The 
woman  was  entirely  changed  towards  her;  abrupt 
and  unconventional,  certainly,  in  manner  and  ad- 
dress, but  nevertheless  shewing  real  care  and  kind- 
ness; and  shewing  moreover  what  a  very  handsome 
woman  she  could  be.  Her  smile  was  frank  and 
sweet;  her  face  when  at  rest  very  striking  for  its 
fine  contour;  and  her  figure  was  stately.  Moreover, 
she  was  an  uncommonly  good  cook;  so  that  the 
viands,  though  plain,  were  made  both  wholesome 
and  appetizing.  In  that  respect  Rotha  did  not  suf- 
fer; the  exclusive  companionship  of  two  such  igno- 
rant and  unrefined  persons  was  a  grievance  on  the 
other  hand  which  pressed  harder  every  day. 

She  kept  herself  busy.  When  her  dresses  were 
done,  she  began  to  spend  hours  a  day  out  of  doors. 


ROTHA'S  WORK.  577 

The  sweet  things  in  the  flower  borders  which  were 
choked  and  hindered  by  wild  growth  and  weeds, 
moved  her  sympathy ;  she  got  a  hoe  and  rake  and 
fork  from  Mr.  Purcell  and  set  about  a  systematic 
clearing  of  the  ground.  It  was  a  spacious  curve 
from  one  gate  to  the  other;  and  all  the  way  went 
the  flower  border  at  one  side  of  the  road,  and  all 
the  way  on  the  other  side,  except  where  the  house 
came  in.  Rotha  could  do  but  a  little  piece  a  day ; 
but  the  beauty  and  pleasantness  of  that  lured  her 
on  to  spend  as  much  time  in  the  work  as  she  could 
match"  with  the  necessary  strength.  It  was  so 
pretty  to  see  the  flowers  in  good  circumstances 
again !  Here  a  sweet  Scotch  rose,  its  graceful 
growth  covered  with  wild-looking,  fair  blossoms; 
here  a  bed  of  lily  of  the  valley ;  close  by  a  carpet 
of  lovely  moss  pink,  which  when  cleared  of  encum- 
bering weedy  growth  that  half  hid  it,  fairly  greet- 
ed Rotha  like  a  smile  whenever  she  went  out. 
And  periwinkle  also  ran  in  a  carpet  over  the 
ground,  green  with  purple  stars;  daffodils  were 
passing  away,  but  pleasant  yet  to  see;  and  little 
tufts  of  polyanthus  and  here  and  there  a  red  tulip 
shewed  now  in  all  their  delicate  beauty,  scarcely 
seen  before.  Hypericum  came  out  gloriously,  wheu 
an  intrusive  and  overgrown  lilac  bush  was  cut 
away;  and  syringa  was  almost  as  good  as  jessa- 
mine, Rotha  thought;  little  red  poppies  began  to 
lift  their  slender  heads,  and  pansies  appeared,  and 
June  roses  were  getting  ready  to  bloom.  And  as 
long  as  Rotha  could  busy  herself  in  the  garden 


578  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

work,  she  was  happy ;  she  forgot  all  that  she  had  to 
trouble  her;  even  when  Prissy  Purcell  came  out  to 
see  and  criticise  what  was  going  on. 

"What  are  you  doin'  all  that  for?"  the  latter 
asked  one  day,  after  standing  some  time  watching 
Rotha's  work.  "Are  you  thinkin'  Mis'  Busby'll 
come  by  and  by?" 

"My  aunt?  No  indeed! "  said  Rotha  looking  up 
with  a  flush.  "  I  have  no  idea  when  I  shall  see 
my  aunt  again ;  and  certainly  I  do  not  expect  to 
see  her  here." 

"  Somebody  else,  then  ?  " 

"  Why  no  !     There  is  nobody  to  come." 

"  Didn't  you  never  have  a  beau  ?  "  said  Prissy 
Purcell,  stooping  down  and  speaking  lower. 

"  A  what  ?  "  said  Rotha  turning  to  her. 

"A  beau.  A  young  man.  Most  girls  does,  when 
they're  as  good-lookin'  as  you  be.  You  know  what 
I  mean.  Didn't  you  never  keep  company  with  no 
one?" 

"  Keep  company ! "  said  Rotha,  half  vexed  and 
half  amused.  "Mrs.  Purcell,  I  was  a  little  girl 
only  just  a  few  days  ago." 

"  But  you're  as  handsome  as  a  red  rose,"  insisted 
Mrs.  Purcell.  "Didn't  you  never  yet  see  nobody 
you  liked  more  'n  common?  " 

Rotha  looked  at  her  again,  and  then  went  on 
forking  up  her  ground.  "Yes,"  she  said;  "but 
people  a  great  deal  older  than  myself,  Mrs.  Pur- 
cell. Now  see  how  that  beautiful  stem  of  white 
lilies  is  choked  and  covered  up.  A  little  while 


ROTHA'S  WORK.  579 

longer  and  we  shall  have  a  lovely  head  of  white 
blossom  bells  there." 

"  Older  'n  your  own  self?  "  repeated  Mrs.  Purcell 
softly. 

"What  ? — 0  yes! "  said  Rotha  laughing;  "a  great 
deal  older  than  myself.  Not  what  you  are  think- 
ing about.  I  have  been  a  school  girl  till  I  came 
here,  Mrs.  Purcell." 

"Then  Mis'  Busby  didn't  send  you  here  to  keep 
you  away  from  no  one  ?  " 

Again  Rotha  looked  in  the  woman's  face,  a  half 
startled  look  this  time.  "No  one,  that  I  know," 
she  answered.  But  a  strange,  doubtful  feeling 
therewith  came  over  her,  and  for  a  moment  she 
stood  still,  with  her  eye  going  off  to  the  gate  and 
the  road,  musing.  If  it  were  so! — and  a  terrible 
impatience  swelled  in  her  breast.  Ay,  if  it  were 
so,  there  was  no  help  for  her.  She  could  not  get 
away,  and  nobody  could  come  to  her,  because  no- 
body knew  and  nobody  would  know  where  she 
was.  Even  supposing  that  so  unimportant  a  per- 
son as  poor  little  Rotha  Carpenter  were  not  already 
and  utterly  forgotten.  That  was  most  probable, 
and  anything  different  was  not  to  be  assumed. 
Continued  care  for  her  would  have  forwarded 
some  testimonials  of  its  existence,  in  letters  or 
messages.  Who  should  say  that  it  had  not  ?  was 
the  next  instant  thought.  They  would  have  come 
to  her  aunt,  and  her  aunt  would  never  have  de- 
livered them. 

This  sort  of  speculation,  natural  enough,  is  be- 


580  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

sides  very  exasperating.  It  broke  up  Kotha's  peace 
for  that  day  and  took  all  the  pleasure  out  of  her 
garden  work.  She  went  on  pulling  up  weeds  and 
forking  up  the  soil,  but  she  did  the  one  with  a  will 
and  the  other  with  a  vengeance ;  staid  out  longer 
than  usual,  and  came  in  tired. 

"Joe,"  said  Mrs.  Purcell  meanwhile  in  the  soli- 
tude of  her  kitchen,  "  I'll  bet  you  a  cookie,  Mis' 
Busby's  up  to  some  tricks !  " 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

INQUIRIES. 

THE  weeks  went  on  now  without  any  change 
but  the  changes  of  the  season.  Rotha's  flow- 
er borders  bloomed  up  into  beauty;  somewhat  old- 
fashioned  beauty,  but  none  the  worse  for  that.  Hy- 
pericum  and  moss  pink  faded  away;  the  roses 
blossomed  and  fell ;  sweet  English  columbines  lifted 
their  sonsy  heads,  pale  blue  and  pale  rose,  and 
dark  purple;  poppies  sprang  up,  as  often  in  the 
gravel  road  as  in  the  beds ;  lilies  came  and  went ; 
the  laburnum  shook  out  its  clusters  of  gold;  old 
honeysuckles  freshened  out  and  filled  all  the  air 
with  the  fragrance  of  their  very  sweet  flowers. 
Rotha's  tulip  tree  came  into  blossom,  and  was  a 
beautiful  object  from  her  high  window  which 
looked  right  into  the  heart  of  it.  Rotha  grew 
very  fond  of  that  tulip  tree.  There  were  fruits 
too.  The  door  in  the  fence,  which  she  had  noticed 
on  her  first  expedition  to  the  barnyard,  was  found 
to  be  the  entrance  to  a  large  kitchen  garden. 
Truly,  Joe  Purcell  cultivated  few  vegetables;  cab- 
bages however  were  in  number  and  variety,  also 

potatoes,  and  that  resource  of  the  poor,  onions. 
(581) 


582  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

The  fruits  were  little  cared  for;  still,  there  were 
numbers  of  purple  raspberry  bushes  trained  along 
the  fence,  which  yielded  a  good  supply  of  berries; 
there  were  strawberry  beds,  grown  up  with  weeds, 
where  good  picking  was  to  found  if  any  one  wanted 
to  take  the  trouble.  Gooseberries  were  in  great 
profusion,  and  currants  in  multitude.  Old  cherry 
trees,  which  shaded  parts  of  the  garden  disadvan- 
tageously  for  the  under  growth,  yielded  a  magnifi- 
cent harvest  of  Maydukes,  white  hearts  and  ox 
hearts;  and  pear  trees  and  mulberry  trees  were 
not  wanting,  promising  later  crops.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Purcell  had  paid  little  attention  to  these  treasures ; 
Joe  hadn't  time,  he  said;  and  Prissy  wouldn't  be 
bothered  with  gathering  berries  after  all  the  rest 
she  had  to  do.  Rotha  made  it  her  own  particular 
task  to  supply  the  little  family  with  fruit ;  and  it 
was  one  of  the  pieces  of  work  she  most  enjoyed. 
Veiy  early,  most  often,  while  the  sun's  rays  yet 
came  well  aslant,  she  set  oif  for  the  old  garden 
with  her  basket  on  her  arm ;  and  brought  in  such 
loads  of  nature's  riches  that  Joe  and  his  wife  de- 
clared they  had  never  lived  so  in  their  lives.  It 
was  lonely  but  sweet  work  to  Rotha  to  gather  the 
fruit.  The  early  summer  mornings  are  some  of  the 
most  wonderful  times  of  the  year,  for  the  glory  and 
fulness  and  freshness  of  nature;  the  spirit  of  life 
and  energy  abroad  is  catching;  and  sometimes 
Rotha's  heart  sang  with  the  birds.  For  she  had  a 
happy  faculty  of  living  in  the  present  moment,  and 
throwing  herself  wholly  into  the  work  she  might 


INQUIRIES.  583 

be  about,  forgetting  care  and  trouble  for  the  time. 
Other  mornings  and  evenings,  she  would  almost 
forget  the  present  in  thoughts  that  roamed  the 
past  and  the  future.  Pushing  her  hand  among  the 
dewy  tufts  of  strawberry  plants  to  seek  the  red 
fytiit  which  had  grown  large  under  the  shadow  of 
them,  her  mind  would  go  wandering  and  search- 
ing among  old  experiences  to  find  out  the  hidden 
motives  and  reasons  which  had  been  at  work, 
or  the  hidden  issues  which  must  still  be  waited  for. 
At  such  times  Eotha  would  come  in  thoughtful  and 
tired.  How  long  would  her  aunt  leave  her  in  this 
place?  and  how,  if  her  aunt  did  not  release  her, 
was  she  ever  to  release  herself?  What  was  Mrs. 
Mowbray  about,  that  she  never  wrote  ?  several  let- 
ters had  been  sent  off  to  her,  now  a  good  while 
ago;  letters  telling  all,  and  seeking  counsel  and 
comfort.  No  word  came  back.  And  oh,  where 
was  that  once  friend,  who  had  told  her  to  tell  him 
everything  that  concerned  her,  and  promised,  tac- 
itly or  in  so  many  words,  that  her  applications 
would  never  be  disregarded  nor  herself  lost  sight 
of?  Years  had  passed  now  since  he  had  given  a 
sign  of  his  existence,  much  less  a  token  of  his  care. 
But  after  all,  was  that  a  certain  thing?  Was  it 
not  possible,  that  Mrs.  Busby  might  have  come  in 
between,  and  prevented  any  letter  or  word  of  Mr. 
Digby's  from  reaching  her  ?  This  sort  of  specula- 
tion always  made  Rotha  feel  wild  and  desperate; 
she  banished  it  as  much  as  she  could ;  for  however 
the  case  were,  she  possessed  no  remedy. 


584  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

June  passed,  and  July,  and  August  came.  No 
word  from  Mrs.  Busby  to  Eotha,  and  Joe  Purcell 
said  none  came  for  him.  The  raspberries  were 
gone,  and  currants  and  gooseberries  in  full  harvest; 
when  there  happened  an  unlocked  for  and  unwel- 
come variety  in  Botha's  way  of  life.  Mrs.  Purcell 
was  taken  ill.  It  was  nothing  but  chills  and  fever, 
the  doctor  said;  but  chills  and  fever  are  pretty 
iroublesome  visiters  if  you  do  not  know  how  to 
get  rid  of  them;  and  that  this  doctor  certainly  did 
not.  It  may  be  said,  that  he  had  a  difficult  patient. 
Prissy  Purcell  was  unaccustomed  to  follow  any  will 
but  her  own,  and  made  the  time  of  sickness  no  ex- 
ception to  her  habit.  With  a  chill  on  her  she  would 
get  up  to  make  bread;  with  the  "sick  day"  de- 
manding absolute  rest  and  quiet  care,  she  would 
go  out  to  the  garden  to  gather  cabbages,  and  stand 
about  preparing  them  and  getting  ready  her  din- 
ner; till  provoked  nature  took  her  revenge  and 
sent  the  chill  creeping  over  her.  Then  Prissy 
would  (if  it  was  not  baking  day)  throw  down 
whatever  she  had  in  hand  and  go  to  her  bed;  and 
it  fell  to  Kotha's  unwonted  fingers  to  put  on  the 
pot  and  cook  the  dinner,  set  the  table  and  wash 
the  dishes,  even  the  pots  and  pans;  for  somebody 
must  do  it,  as  she  reflected,  and  poor  Mrs.  Purcell 
would  come  out  of  her  bed  in  the  evening  a  mere 
wreck  of  her  usual  self,  very  unfit  to  do  anything. 

It  was  a  strange  experience,  for  Rotha  to  be 
cooking  Joe  Purcell's  dinner  and  then  eating  it 
with  him ;  making  gruel  and  toast  for  Prissy  and 


INQUIRIES.  585 

serving  it  to  her;  keeping  the  kitchen  in  order; 
sweeping,  dusting,  mopping,  scrubbing,  for  even 
that  could  not  be  avoided  sometimes.  "  It  is  my 
work,"  Eotha  said  to  herself;  "  it  is  what  is  given 
me  just  now  to  do.  I  wonder,  why  ?  But  all  the 
same,  it  is  given ;  and  there  must  be  some  use  in 
it."  She  was  very  busy  oftentimes  now,  without 
the  help  of  her  flower  borders,  which  had  to  be 
neglected;  she  rejoiced  that  the  small  fruit  was 
gone,  or  nearly  gone ;  from  morning  to  night,  when 
Prissy  was  abed,  she  went  steadily  from  one  thing 
to  another  with  scarce  any  interval  of  active  work. 
No  study  now  but  her  Bible  study;  and  to  have 
time  for  that,  Eotha  must  get  up  very  early  in  the 
morning.  Then,  at  her  window,  with  the  glory  of 
the  summer  day  just  coming  upon  the  outer  world, 
she  sat  and  read  and  thought  and  prayed ;  her  eyes 
going  alternately  from  her  open  page  to  the  green 
and  golden  depths  of  the  tulip  tree  opposite  her 
window;  looking  the  while  with  her  mental  eye  at 
the  fresh  and  glorious  riches  of  some  promise  or 
prophecy.  Perhaps  Kotha  never  enjoyed  her  Bible 
more,  nor  ever  would,  only  that  with  growing  ex- 
perience in  the  ways  of  the  Lord  comes  ever  new 
power  to  see  the  beauties  of  them,  and  with  greater 
knowledge  of  him  comes  a  larger  love. 

August  passed,  and  September  came.  And  Sep- 
tember also  ran  its  course.  The  weather  grew  calm 
and  clear,  and  began  to  be  crisp  with  frost,  and  the 
outer  world  beautified  with  red  maple  leaves  and 
crimson  creepers  and  golden  hickory  trees.  Prissy 


586  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

got  better  and  took  her  former  place  in  the  house ; 
and  therewith  Rotha  had  time  to  breathe  and  be- 
think herself. 

Her  aunt  must  long  since  be  returned  from  Chi- 
cago. Once  a  scrap  of  a  note  had  been  received 
irom  her,  but  it  told  nothing.  It  was  not  dated, 
and  the  postmark  was  not  New  York.  It  told  ab- 
tolutely  nothing,  even  indirectly.  Airs.  Mowbray 
must  long  since  have  reopened  her  school,  but  it 
seemed  to  be  tacitly  agreed  upon  that  Rotha  was 
to  go  to  school  no  more.  What  were  all  the  peo- 
ple about  ?  there  seemed  to  be  a  spell  upon  Rotha 
and  her  affairs,  as  much  as  if  she  had  been  a  prin- 
cess in  a  fairy  tale  enchanted  and  turned  to  stone, 
or  put  to  sleep;  only  she  was  not  turned  to  stone 
at  all,  but  all  alive'  and  quivering  with  pain  and 
fear  and  anxiety.  It  was  her  life  that  was  spell- 
bound. A  thousand  times  she  revolved  the  possi- 
bility of  going  into  some  work  by  which  she  could 
make  money ;  and  always  had  to  give  it  up.  She  saw 
nobody,  knew  nobody,  could  apply  to  no  one.  She 
had  used  up  all  her  writing  paper  in  letters ;  and 
never  an  answer  did  she  get.  She  began  to  think 
indeed  her  world  was  bewitched.  Winter  was 
looming  up  in  the  dista'nce,  not  so  very  far  off 
neither;  was  she  to  pass  it  here,  alone  with  Prissy 
Purcell  and  her  husband?  Sometimes  Rotha' s  cour- 
age gave  way  and  she  shed  bitter  teal's ;  other  times, 
when  she  was  dressing  her  flowers  in  the  long  beds, 
or  when  she  was  looking  into  the  tulip  tree  with 
some  sweet  word  of  the  Bible  in  her  mind,  she  could 


INQUIRIES.  587 

even  smile  at  her  prospect,  and  trust,  and  be  quiet, 
and  wait.  However,  as  the  autumn  wore  on,  I  am 
afraid  the  quiet  was  more  and  more  broken  up  and 
the  trust  more  sorrowful. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  evenings  of  early  October, 
that  Mr.  Southwode  presented  himself,  after  so  long 
an  interval,  at  Mrs.  Busby's  door.  Nothing  was 
changed,  to  all  appearance,  in  the  house;  it  might 
have  been  but  yesterday  that  he  walked  out  of  it 
for  the  last  time;  and  nothing  was  changed  in  the 
appearance  of  Mr.  Southwode  himself.  Just  as  he 
came  three  years  ago,  he  came  now. 

Mrs.  Busby  was  alone  in  her  drawing  room,  and 
advanced  to  meet  him  with  outstretched  hand  and 
an  expression  of  great  welcome.  She  had  not 
changed  either,  unless  for  the  better.  Her  vis- 
iter  recognized,  as  he  had  often  done  before,  the 
expression  of  sense  and  character  in  her  face,  the 
quiet  suavity  of  her  manner,  the  many  indications 
that  here  was  what  is  called  a  fine  woman.  About 
the  goodness  of  this  fine  woman  he  was  not  so  sure ; 
but  he  paid  her  a  tribute  of  involuntary  respect 
for  her  abilities,  her  cleverness,  and  her  good 
manners. 

"  Mr.  Southwode !  I  am  delighted  to  see  you !  " 
she  exclaimed  as  she  advanced  to  meet  him,  cor- 
dially, and  yet  with  quiet  dignity ;  not  too  cordial. 
"  You  have  been  a  stranger  to  New  York  a  great 
while." 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "Much  longer  than  I  antici- 
pated." 


588  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  I  thought  we  should  hardly  ever  see  you  here 
again." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  he  asked  with  a  smile. 

"Want  of  sufficient  attraction.  You  know,  we 
are  apt  to  think  here  that  Englishmen,  if  they  are 
well  placed  in  their  own  country,  do  not  want  any- 
thing of  other  countries.  They  are  on  the  very 
height  of  civilization,  and  of  everything  else.  They 
have  enough.  And  certainly,  America  cannot  offer 
them  much." 

"  America  is  a  large  field  for  work," — Mr.  South- 
wode  observed. 

"  Ah  yes ;  but  what  country  is  not  ?  I  dare  say 
you  find  enough  to  do  on  the  other  side.  Do  you 
not?" 

"  I  have  no  difficulty  on  that  score,"  Mr.  South- 
wode  confessed;  "on  either  side  of  the  Atlantic." 

"We  were  very  glad  to  hear  of  the  successful 
termination  of  your  lawsuit,"  Mrs.  Busby  went  on. 
"  I  may  congratulate  you,  may  I  not  ?  I  know  you 
do  not  set  an  over  value  on  the  goods  of  fortune; 
but  at  the  same  time,  it  always  seems  to  me  that 
the  possessor  of  great  means  has  a  great  advantage. 
It  is  true,  wealth  is  a  flood  in  which  many  people's 
heads  and  hearts  are  submerged ;  but  that  would 
never  be  your  case,  I  judge." 

"  I  would  rather  be  drowned  in  some  other  me- 
dium," he  allowed. 

"  Well,  we  heard  right  ?  The  decisions  were  in 
your  favour,  and  triumphantly  ?  " 

"  They  were  in  my  favour,  and  unconditionally. 


INQUIRIES.  589 

I  did  not  feel  that  there  was  much  to  triumph  about, 
or  can  be,  in  a  family  lawsuit." 

"  No ;  they  are  very  sad  things.  I  am  very  glad 
you  are  out  of  them,  and  so  well  out  of  them." 

"Thank  you.  How  are  my  young  friends  in  the 
family?" 

"  The  girls  ?  Quite  well,  thank  you,  They  are 
unluckily  neither  of  them  at  home." 

"Not  at  home!  I  am  sorry  for  that.  How  has 
my  child  developed?  "  he  asked  with  a  slight  smile. 

"  She  has  grown  into  a  young  woman,"  Mrs.  Bus- 
by answered,  with  one  of  those  utterly  impercept- 
ible, yet  thoroughly  perceived,  changes  of  manner 
which  speak  of  a  mental  check  received  or  a  mental 
protest  made.  It  was  not  a  change  of  manner 
either;  nothing  so  tangible;  I  cannot  tell  what  it 
was  in  her  expression  that  Mr.  South wode  instantly 
saw  and  felt,  and  that  put  him  upon  his  guard  and 
upon  his  mettle  at  once.  Mrs.  Busby  had  drawn 
her  shawl  closer  round  her;  that  was  all  the  out- 
ward gesture.  She  always  wore  a  shawl.  In  win- 
ter it  was  thick  and  in  summer  it  was  gossamer; 
but  one  way  or  another  a  shawl  seemed  essential 
to  Mrs.  Busby's  well-being.  What  Mr.  Southwode 
gathered  from  her  words  was  a  covert  rebuke  and 
rebuff.  He  was  informed  that  Eotha  was  grown 
up. 

"  It  is  hard  to  realize  that,"  he  said  lightly.  "  It 
seems  but  the  other  day  that  I  left  her;  and  since 
then,  nothing  else  has  changed  !  " 

"  She  has  changed,"  said  Mrs.  Busby  drily. 


590  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"May  I  ask,  how? — besides  the  physical  differ- 
ence, which  to  be  sure  was  to  be  looked  for  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  that  there  is  any  other  particu- 
lar change." 

"  That  would  disappoint  me,"  said  Mr.  South wode. 
"  I  hoped  to  find  a  good  deal  of  mental  growth  and 
improvement  as  the  fruit  of  these  three  years.  She 
has  been  at  school  all  the  time  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  What  is  her  school  record  ?  " 

"  Very  fairly  good,"  said  Mrs.  Busby,  turning  her 
eyes  now  upon  the  young  man,  whom  for  the  last 
few  minutes  they  had  avoided.  "  I  did  not  know 
you  were  so  much  interested  in  Rotha,  Mr.  South- 
wode." 

"  She  was  my  charge,  you  are  aware.  Her  moth- 
er left  her  to  my  care." 

"  Until  she  was  placed  in  mine,"  said  Mrs.  Bus- 
by with  dignity.  "  I  hope  you  believe  that  I  am 
able  to  take  good  care  of  her  ?  " 

"I  should  be  very  sorry  to  doubt  that,  and  no 
one  who  knows  Mrs.  Busby  could  question  it  for  a 
moment.  But  a  charge  is  a  charge,  you  know, 
f  o  resign  it  or  delegate  it  is  not  optional.  I  re- 
gard myself  as  Rotha's  guardian  always,  and 
it  was  as  her  guardian  that  I  entrusted  her  to 

you." 

Mrs.  Busby  did  not  answer  this,  and  did  not 
change  a  muscle  in  face  or  figure. 

"And  so,"  Mr.  Southwode  went  on,  smiling, — 
he  was  amused,  and  he  appreciated  Mrs.  Busby, 


INQUIRIES.  591 

— "it  is  as  her  guardian  that  I  am  asking  an  ac- 
count of  her  now." 

"I  have  given  it,"  said  Mrs.  Busby;  and  she 
moved  her  lips  as  if  they  were  dry,  which  however 
her  utterance  was  not.  It  was  pleasant. 

"The  young  ladies  can  hardly  be  expected  home 
early,  I  suppose  ?  "  said  Mr.  South wode,  looking  at 
his  watch. J 

"Hardly" — returned  Mrs.  Busby  in  the  same 
way. 

"  When  can  I  see  Kotha  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  To-morrow,"  said  Mrs.  Busby,  speaking  lei- 
surely, "you  will  hardly  see  her.  She  is  not  at 
home.  I  said  that  before,  but  you  understood  me 
to  speak  of  the  evening  merely." 

"  Where  is  she  then  ?     I  can  go  to  her." 

"  No,  you  cannot,"  said  Mrs.  Busby  half  smiling, 
but  it  was  not  a  smile  Mr.  South  wode  liked.  "She 
is  at  a  friend's  house  in  the  country." 

"  Not  in  New  York !  How  long  do  you  expect 
her  to  be  absent  ? '  * 

"That  I  cannot  possibly  tell.  It  depends  on  cir- 
cumstances that  I  do  not  know." 

Mr.  Southwode  pondered.  "  Will  you  favour  me 
with  her  address  ? "  he  asked,  taking  out  his  note- 
book. 

"  It  is  not  worth  the  while,"  said  the  lady  quiet- 
ly. "  She  is  at  a  considerable  distance  from  New 
York,  too  far  for  you  to  go  to  her;  and  she  may  be 
home  any  day.  It  depends,  as  I  said,  on  what  I  do 
not  now  know." 


592  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"And  may  be  delayed  yet  for  some  time,  then?" 

"  Possibly." 

"  Will  you  give  me  her  address,  Mrs.  Busby." 

Mr.  Southwode's  pencil  was  ready,  but  instead 
of  giving  him  something  to  do  with  it,  Mrs.  Busby 
rang  the  belL  Pencil  and  notebook  waited. 

"  Lesbia,  go  up  to  my  dressing  room  and  bring 
me  a  little  green  book  with  a  clasp  lying  on  my 
table  there." 

A  few  minutes  of  silence  and  waiting ;  then  Les- 
bia returned  with  the  announcement,  "  There  aint 
no  sort  o'  little  book  there,  Mis'  Busby.  There's  a 
heap  o'  big  ones,  but  they  aiut  green." 

"  Go  again  and  look  in  the  left  hand  drawer." 

Lesbia  came  again.  "Aint  nothin'  there  but 
papers." 

"That  will  do.  Mr.  South wode,  I  have  not  my 
address  book,  and  without  that  I  cannot  give  you 
what  you  want.  The  name  of  the  post-office  town 
is  very  peculiar,  and  I  always  forget  it.  But  I 
can  write  •  to  Rotha  to-morrow  and  summon  her, 
if  you  think  it  necessary." 

"  Would  that  be  an  inexpedient  measure  ?  " 

"  You  must  judge.  I  have  not  thought  best  to 
do  it;  but  if  it  is  necessary  I  can  do  it  now." 

"  I  will  not  give  you  so  much  trouble.  If  you 
will  allow  me,  I  will  come  again  to  morrow  even- 
ing, and  get  the  address." 

"  To-morrow  evening !  "  said  the  lady  slowly. 
"  I  am  very  sorry,  I  have  an  engagement ;  I  shall 
not  be  at  home  to-morrow  evening." 


INQUIRIES.  593 

Why  did  it  not  occur  to  Mrs.  Busby  to  say  that 
she  would  leave  the  address  for  him,  if  he  would 
call  for  it?  Mr.  Southwode  quietly  put  up  his 
pencil,  and  remarked  that  another  time  would  do; 
and  passed  on  easily  to  make  inquiries  about  what 
New  York  had  been  doing  since  he  went  away  ? 
Mrs.  Busby  told  him  of  certain  buildings  and  plans 
for  buildings  here  and  there,  and  then  suddenly 
asked, 

"  When  did  you  come,  Mr.  Southwode  ?  " 

"  I  landed  to-day." 

"  To-day !  Rotha  would  be  very  much  flattered 
if  she  knew  how  prompt  you  have  been  to  seek 
her  out." 

It  was  said  with  a  manner  meant  to  be  smoothly 
insinuating,  but  which  somehow  had  missed  the 
smoothness.  Mrs.  Busby  for  that  moment  had  lost 
the  hold  she  usually  kept  of  herself. 

"  Rotha  would  expect  no  less  of  me,"  Mr.  South- 
wode answered  calmly. 

"  Then  you  and  she  must  have  been  great  friends 
before  you  went  away  ?  greater  then  I  knew." 

"  Did  Rotha  not  credit  me  with  so  much  ? "  he 
asked  with  a  smile,  which  covered  a  sharp  ob- 
servation of  the  lady,  examining  him. 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  Mrs.  Busby,  with  a 
manner  which  was  intended  to  be  gracious,  "  I  did 
not  encourage  her.  Knowing  what  gentlemen,  and 
young  gentlemen,  generally  are,  I  thought  it  un- 
likely that  you  would  much  remember  Rotha  amid 
the  pressure  of  your  business  in  England,  and  very 


594  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

likely  that  things  might  turn  out  so  that  she  would 
never  see  you  again.  I  expected  every  day  to  hear 
that  you  were  married;  and  of  course  that  would 
have  been  an  end  of  your  interest  in  her." 

"  Why  do  you  think  so,  may  I  ask  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  Every  woman  knows,"  said  Mrs.  Busby 
in  amused  fashion. 

"  I  will  not  marry  till  I  find  a  woman  that  does 
not  know,"  said  Mr.  Southwode  shaking  his  head. 

"Now  that  is  unreasonable,  Mr.  Southwode." 

"  I  do  not  think  so.     Prove  it." 

"  I  cannot  prove  it  to  a  man.  I  have  only  a  wo- 
man's knowledge,  of  what  he  does  not  understand. 
And  besides,  Mr.  Southwode,  it  is  quite  right  and 
proper  that  it  should  be  so.  A  man  shall  leave  his 
father  and  mother  and  cleave  to  his  wife ;  and  if 
his  father  and  mother,  surely  everybody  else." 

"  As  I  am  not  married,  the  case  does  not  come 
under  consideration,"  said  the  gentleman  carelessly. 
And  after  a  pause  he  went  on — "  I  have  written 
several  letters  to  Rotha  during  the  time  of  my 
absence,  and  addressed  them  to  your  care.  Did 
you  receive  them  safe  ?  " 

"I  received  several — I  do  not  at  this  moment 
recollect  just  how  many." 

"  Do  you  know  why  they  were  never  answered  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  do,l'  said  Mrs.  Busby  composedly. 
"  Rotha  has  been  exceedingly  engrossed  with  her 
studies." 

"  She  had  vacations  ?  " 

"  0  certainly.     She  had  vacations." 


INQUIRIES.  595 

"  Then  can  you  tell  me,  Mrs.  Busby,  why  Kotha 
never  wrote  to  me-?  " 

"I  am  afraid  I  cannot  tell  you,"  the  lady  an- 
swered slowly,  looking  into  the  fire. 

"  Do  you  think  Rotha  has  forgotten  me  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  like  her,  I  should  say,  to  forget.  I 
never  hear  her  mention  you.  But  then,  I  see  her 
little  except  in  the  vacations,  and  not  always  then; 
she  was  often  carried  off  from  me." 

"  By  whom,  may  I  ask  ?  " 

'•O  by  her  school  teacher." 

"  And  that  was —  ?  Pardon  me,  but  it  concerns 
me  to  know  all  about  Eotha  I  can." 

"  I  am  not  sure  if  I  am  justified  in  telling  you." 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Busby  with  an  appearance 
of  candour,  "  my  guardianship  is  the  proper  one 
for  her.  How  can  you  be  her  guardian,  while  she 
lives  in  my  house,  Mr.  Southwode?  Or  how  can 
you  be  her  guardian  out  of  it  ?  " 

"  1  promised  her  mother,"  he  said.  "  How  a 
promise  shall  be  fulfilled,  may  admit  of  question; 
but  not  whether  it  shall  be  fulfilled." 

"  I  know  of  but  one  way,"  Mrs.  Busby  went  on, 
eyeing  him  now  intently.  "If  you  tell  me  you 
are  intending  to  take  that  way, — then  I  have  no 
more  to  say,  of  course.  But  I  know  of  but  one 
way  in  which  it  can  be  done." 

Mr.  Southwode  laughed  a  little,  a  low,  soft  laugh, 
that  in  him  always  meant  amusement.  "  I  did  not 
promise  that  to  her  mother,"  he  said,  "  and  I  can- 


596  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

not  promise  it  to  you.  It  might  be  convenient, 
but  I  do  not  contemplate  it." 

"  Then,  Mr.  Southwode,  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  re- 
quest that  you  fulfil  your  promise  by  acting 
through  me." 

It  was  well  enough  said;  it  was  not  without 
some  ground  of  reason.  If  he  could  have  felt  sure 
of  Mrs.  Busby,  it  might  have  received,  partially  at 
least,  his  concurrence.  But  he  was  as  far  as  pos- 
sible from  feeling  sure  of  Mrs.  Busby;  and  rather 
gave  her  credit  for  playing  a  clever  mask.  Upon 
a  little  pause  which  followed  the  last  words,  there 
came  a  ring  at  the  door  and  the  entrance  of  the 
young  lady  of  the  house.  Antoinette  was  grown 
up  excessively  pretty,  and  was  dressed  to  set  off 
her  prettiness.  Her  mother  might  be  pardoned  for 
viewing  her  with  secret  pride  and  exultation,  if  not 
for  the  thrill  of  jealous  fear  which  accompanied  the 
proud  joy.  That  anybody  should  stand  in  this 
beauty's  way! 

"  Mr.  Southwode !  "  exclaimed  the  young  lady. 
"  It  is  Mr.  Southwode  come  back.  Why,  Mr.  South- 
wode, what  has  kept  you  so  long  ?  We  heard  you 
were  coming  five  months  ago.  Why  didn't  you 
come  then  ?  " 

Mrs.  Busby  wished  her  daughter  had  not  said 
that. 

"  There  were  reasons — not  interesting  enough  to 
occupy  your  ear  with  them." 

" '  Occupy  my  ear ' !  "  repeated  the  girl.  "  That 
is  something  new.  Mamma,  isn't  that  deliciously 


INQUIRIES.  597 

polite !  Well,  what  made  you  stay  away  so  long, 
Mr.  South wode?  I  like  to  have  my  ear  occupied." 

"Should  not  people  stay  where  they  belong?" 

"  And  do  you  belong  in  England  ?  " 

"  I  suppose,  in  a  measure,  I  may  say  I  do." 

"You  talk  foolishly,  Antoinette,"  her  mother  put 
in.  "  Don't  you  know  that  Mr.  South wode's  home 
is  in  England  ?  " 

"  People  can  change  their  homes,  mamma.  Then, 
you  are  not  going  to  stay  long,  Mr.  South  wode?" 

"  1  do  not  know  how  long.  That  is  an  unde- 
cided point." 

"  And  what  have  you  come  over  for  now  ?  " 

"  Antoinette !  "  said  her  mother  again.  "  I  do 
not  know  if  you  can  excuse  her,  Mr.  Southwode ; 
she  is  entirely  too  out-spoken.  That  is  a  question 
you  have  nothing  to  do  with,  Nettie." 

"Why  not,  mamma?  He  has  come  for  some- 
thing ;  and  if  it  is  business,  or  travelling,  or  hunt- 
ing, I  would  like  to  know." 

"  Hunting,  at  this  time  of  year !  "  said  Mrs.  Busby. 

"  I  might  say  it  is  business,"  said  Mr.  Southwode. 
"  In  one  part  of  my  business,  perhaps  you  can  help 
me." 

Antoinette  pricked  up  her  ears  delightedly,  and 
eagerly  asked  how?  and  what? 

"  I  made  it  part  of  my  business  to  inquire  about 
a  little  girl  that  I  left  three  years  ago  under  your 
mother's  care." 

"  Rotha !  "  exclaimed  Antoinette ;  and  a  cloudy 
shadow  of  displeasure  and  suspicion  forthwith  fell 


598  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

over  her  face;  not  tinder  such  good  control  as  her 
mother's.  "  A  little  girl !  She  was  not  so  very 
little." 

"What  sort  of  a  girl  has  she  turned  out  to 
be?" 

"Not  little  now,  I  can  tell  you.  She  is  a  great 
deal  bigger  than  I  am.  So  you  came  to  see  about 
Rotha  ?  " 

"  What  can  you  tell  me  about  her  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  want  to  know  ?  " 

"  Nothing  but  the  truth,"  said  Mr.  Southwode 
gravely. 

"  But  the  truth  about  what  ?  Rotha  is  just  what 
she  used  to  be." 

"  Not  changed  except  in  inches  ?  " 

"Inches  !  Feet ! — "  said  Antoinette.  "  We  don't 
think  about  inches  when  we  look  at  her.  I  don't 
know  about  anything  else.  If  you  want  an  ac- 
count of  her  studies  you  must  ask  somebody  at 
school." 

u  Her  teacher  was  yours  ?  " 

"  0  yes.  Lately,  you  know,  we  were  both  in  the 
upper  class;  and  of  course  we  were  together  in 
Mrs.  Mow  bray's  lessons;  but  then  in  other  things 
we  were  apart" 

"How  was  that?" 

"Studied  different  things,"  said  Antoinette  short- 
ly. "  Had  different  masters.  I  can't  tell  you  about 
Rotha's  lessons,  if  you  want  to  know  that."  She 
was  pulling  off  her  gloves  as  she  spoke,  and  tugged 
at  them  with  an  appearance  of  vexation,  which 


INQUIRIES.  599 

might  be  due  to  their  excellent  fit  and  consequent 
difficulty  of  removal. 

"  Has  she  proved  herself  a  pleasant  inmate  of 
the  family?" 

"  She  has  been  rather  an  inmate  of  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray's  family,"  said  Antoinette.  "  Mrs.  Mowbray 
has  swallowed  her  up  and  carried  her  off  from  us. 
We  don't  see  much  of  her." 

"  Antoinette,"  said  her  mother  here,  "  Mr.  South- 
wode  wants  to  know  Rotha's  address;  and  I  can- 
not give  him  the  name  of  the  place.  Can  you  help 
me  recollect  it  ?  " 

"Never  knew  it,  mamma.  I  didn't  know  the 
place  had  a  name.  I  can't  recollect  what  I  never 
heard." 

"There  must  be  a  post-office,"  Mr.  South wode 
remarked. 

"Must  there?  0  I  suppose  there  must,  some- 
where; but  I  don't  know  it." 

"  Lesbia  could  not  find  my  address  book,"  Mrs. 
Busby  added. 

"  It  is  a  matter  of  no  consequence,"  Mr.  South- 
wode  rejoined.  And  he  presently  after  took  his 
leave.  A  moment's  silence  followed  his  departure. 

"There  was  no  need  to  tell  him  you  did  not 
know  the  post-office  town,"  said  Mrs.  Busby.  '"That 
was  as  much  as  to  say,  you  never  write." 

"  What  should  I  write  for  ?  "  returned  Antoinette 
defiantly.  "  Mamma !  was  that  all  he  came  for  ?  to 
ask  about  Rotha  ?  " 

"All  that  he  came  here  for,"  said  Mrs.  Busby, 


600  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

with  lines  in  her  brow  and  a  compressed  mouth. 
"  I  wish  you  had  not  told  him  where  Rotha  went 
to  school,  either." 
"Why?" 

"  Just  as  well  not  to  say  it." 

"  But  what  harm  ?  He  could  ask,  if  he  wanted 
to  know;  and  then  you  would  have  to  tell.  What 
does  he  want  her  address  for  ?  " 

"I  don't  know;  but  I  can  manage  that,  well 
enough.  He  knows  nothing  about  Tanfield." 

"Mamma!  I  wish  Rotha  had  never  come  to  us!" 
cried  Antoinette  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Don't  be  foolish,  Antoinette.  Mr.  Southwode 
will  be  here  again  in  a  day  or  two ;  and  then  leave 
things  to  me." 

Mr.  Southwode  meantime  walked  slowly  and 
thoughtfully  to  the  corner  of  the  street.  By  that 
time  his  manner  changed;  and  he  hailed  a  horse 
car  and  sprang  into  it  like  a  man  who  was  suffer- 
ing from  no  indecision  in  either  his  views  or  pur- 
poses. Oddly  enough,  the  very  name  which  An- 
toinette had  comforted  herself  with  thinking  he  did 
not  know,  had  suddenly  occurred  to  him,  together 
with  a  long-ago  proposition  of  Mrs.  Busby  to  her 
sister  in  the  latter's  time  of  need.  He  had  pretty 
well  made  up  his  mind. 

Half  an  hour  later  Mr.  Southwode  was  announced 
to  Mrs.  Mowbray. 

Mrs.  Mowbray  recollected  him ;  she  never  forgot 
anybody,  or  failed  to  catalogue  anybody  rightly  in 
the  vast  collections  and  stores  of  her  memory.  She 


INQUIRIES.  601 

received  Mr.  South  wode  therefore  with  the  gracious 
courtesy  and  dignity  which  was  habitual  with  her, 
and  with  the  full  measure  also  of  her  usual  reserve 
and  quick  observation. 

After  a  few  commonplaces  respecting  his  absence 
and  his  return,  Mr.  Southwode  begged  to  ask  if 
Mrs.  Busby's  niece,  Miss  Carpenter,  were  in  her 
house  or  school  ?  " 

"  Miss  Carpenter  is  not  with  me,"  Mrs.  Mowbray 
answered  guardedly. 

"  But  she  has  been  with  you,  if  I  understand 
aright  ?  " 

"  She  has  been  with  me  until  lately." 

"  Are  you  informed  that  she  will  not  return  ?  " 

"  By  no  means !  I  am  expecting  to  see  her  or 
hear  from  her  every  day.  O  by  no  means.  Miss 
Carpenter  ought  to  remain  with  me  several  years 
yet.  I  shall  be  much  disappointed  if  she  do  not. 
It  is  one  great  mistake  of  parents  now-a-days,  that 
they  do  not  give  me  time  enough.  The  first  two 
or  three  years  can  but  lay  a  foundation,  on  which 
to  build  afterwards." 

"  May  I  ask,  if  the  foundation  has  been  success- 
fully laid  in  Miss  Carpenter's  case?  I  am  inter- 
ested to  know ;  because  Mrs.  Carpenter  when  she 
died  left  her  child  to  my  care ;  and  I  hold  myself 
responsible  for  what  concerns  her." 

Mrs.  Mowbray  hesitated  slightly.  "  Where  was 
Mrs.  Busby  ?  "  she  asked  then. 

"Here;  but  there  was  no  intercourse  between  the 
sisters." 


602  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Was  it  not  by  her  mother's  wish  that  Miss  Car- 
penter was  placed  with  her  aunt  ?  " 

"  No.     I  acted  on  no  authority  but  my  own." 

"  What  sort  of  a  woman  was  Mrs.  Carpenter  ?  " 

"A  very  admirable  woman.  A  sweet,  sound, 
noble  nature,  with  a  great  deal  of  quiet  strength." 

"  Is  her  daughter  like  her  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least.  I  do  not  mean  that  she  lacks 
some  of  her  mother's  good  qualities ;  but  they  are 
developed  differently,  and  with  a  wholly  different 
background  of  temperament." 

"  Was  there  a  feud  between  the  sisters,  or  any- 
thing like  it  ?" 

Mr.  Southwbde  hesitated.  "  I  know  the  story,'' 
he  said.  "Mrs.  Carpenter  never  complained;  but 
I  think  another  woman  would,  in  her  place." 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  ask,  how  she  came  to  en- 
trust her  child  to  you  ?  " 

"  I  was  the  only  friend  at  hand.  And  now,"  Mr. 
Southwode  went  on  smiling,  "  may  I  be  permitted 
to  ask  another  question  or  two  ?  When  have  you 
heard  from  Miss  Carpenter  ?  " 

"Not  a  word  all  summer.  In  the  spring  my 
school  was  broken  up,  on  account  of  sickness  in 
the  house;  I  sent  Rotha  home  to  her  aunt;  and 
since  then  I  have  heard  nothing  from  her.  Not  a 
word." 

"You  do  not  know  then  of  course  where  she 
is?" 

"  With  her  aunt,  I  suppose,  of  course.  Is  she  not 
with  Mrs.  Busby  ?  " 


INQUIRIES.  603 

"  She  is  making  a  visit  somewhere,  Mrs.  Busby 
tells  me."  And  he  hesitated.  "  Has  Rotha's  home 
been  happy  with  her  aunt  ?  " 

"That  is  a  question  I  never  ask.  Rotha  does  not 
complain." 

"  I  need  not  ask  whether  her  abode  has  been 
happy  here"  said  the  gentleman  smiling  again; 
"  but,  has  she  been  a  satisfactory  member  of  your 
school  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  so !     Of  my  school  and  family." 

"You  are  satisfied  with  her  studies,  her  progress 
in  them,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Perfectly.  I  never  taught  any  one  with  more 
pleasure  or  better  results." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that,"  said  Mr.  South- 
wode.  And  he  took  his  leave. 

The  very  next  train  for  Tanfield  carried  him 
northward. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

DISCOVERIES. 

THE  next  day,  which  was  the  24th  of  October, 
passed  as  other  days  of  less  significance  had 
done.  At  dinner  Mrs.  Purcell  complained  of  Ro- 
tha's  failure  of  appetite.  Rotha  had  been  down- 
hearted all  the  morning.  Seven  days  more,  and 
November  would  begin ! 

"  You  don't  eat  worth  a  red  cent ! "  said  Mrs. 
Purcell.  "  Aint  that  a  good  pot  pie  ?  " 

"Excellent!  The  queen  of  England  couldn't 
have  a  better." 

"If  she  hasn't  a  better  appetite  she  won't  be 
queen  long.  Why  don't  ye  eat  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  I  can't,  Prissy." 

"What  ails  you?" 

"Nothing.     I  get  thinking;  that's  all." 

"  Joe,"  said  his  wife,  "  what's  Mis'  Busby  doin'  ?  " 

"  Couldn't  say." 

"Where  is  she?  Why  don't  she  come  after  Miss 
Rotha?" 

"  I  s'pose  she's  busy  with  her  own  affaira  If  she' 
had  consulted  me,  I  could  ha'  told  you  more." 

"  If  she  ever  consults  you,  I  hope  you'll  give  her 

some  good  advice.     She  wants  it  bad !  " 
(604) 


DISCOVERIES.  605 

"  I  guess  I  will,"  said  Mr.  Purcell,  lounging  out. 
"If  I  don't,  you  kin." 

Rotha  wished  to  escape  further  remark  or  en- 
quiry, and  went  out  too.  She  would  divert  herself 
with  gathering  a  great  bunch  of  the  fall  flowers 
and  dress  some  dishes.  She  often  refreshed  her- 
self and  refined  the  tea-table  with  a  nosegay 
dressed  in  the  middle  of  it,  especially  as  it  seemed 
to  give  not  less  pleasure  to  her  entertainers '  than 
to  her.  She  went  now  slowly  down  the  gravelled 
drive,  filling  her  hands  as  she  went  with  asters, 
chrysanthemums,  late  honeysuckles,  and  bits  of 
green  from  box  and  cedar  and  feathery  larches. 
She  went  slowly,  thinking  hard  all  the  way,  and 
feeling  very  blue  indeed.  She  saw  no  opening  out 
of  her  troubles,  and  she  strongly  suspected  that 
her  aunt  meant  there  should  be  none.  What  was 
to  become  of  her  ?  True,  it  flashed  into  her  mind, 
"The  Lord  is  my  Shepherd"; — but  the  sheep 
was  taking  it  into  her  head  to  think  for  her- 
self, and  could  not  see  that  the  path  she  was 
following  would  end  in  anything  but  disaster 
and  famishing.  If  she  could  but  get  out  of  this 
path— , — 

Ah,  silly  sheep ! 

Rotha  found  herself  at  the  gate  leading  into  the 
high  road;  the  gate  by  which  she  had  been  ad- 
mitted so  many  months  ago,  and  which  she  had 
never  passed  through  since.  She  did  not  open  it 
now;  she  stood  still,  resting  one  hand  on  the  bars 
of  it  and  gazing  off  along  the  road  that  led  to 


THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Tanfield.  It  was  quite  empty;  there  was  little 
passing  along  that  road  in  the  best  of  times,  and 
very  little  at  this  season.  It  looked  hopeless 
and  desolate,  the  long  straight  lines  of  fences, 
and  the  gray,  empty  space  between  running  off 
1  into  nothing.  Anything  moving  upon  it  would 
have  been  a  relief  to  the  eye  and  the  mind;  it 
looked  like  Botha's  own  life  at  present,  unchang- 
ing, Monotonous,  solitary,  barren,  endless.  Yet 
very  precious  Howers  had  been  lately  blossoming 
upon  her  path,  and  fragrant  plants  springing;  but 
this,  if  she  partly  knew,  at  this  moment  she  wholly 
ignored  or  forgot.  She  stood  in  a  dream  reverie, 
looking  forward  with  her  bodily  eye,  but  with  the 
eye  of  her  mind  back,  and  far  back;  to  her  mother, 
to  her  father,  to  Mr.  Digby,  and  the  times  at  Med- 
wayville  when  she  was  a  happy  child.  Nothing 
regular  or  consecutive;  a  maze  of  dream  images 
in  which  she  lost  herself,  and  under  the  power  of 
which  her  tears  slowly  gathered  and  began  to  run 
down  her  cheeks.  Standing  so,  looking  down  the 
long  empty  road,  and  in  the  very  depths  of  dis- 
heartened foreboding  and  dismay,  a  step  startled 
her.  Nobody  was  in  sight  on  the  road  towards 
Tanfield;  it  was  a  quick  business  step  coming  in 
the  other  direction.  Rotha  turned  her  head  hur- 
riedly, and  then  was  more  in  a  maze  than  ever, 
though  of  a  different  kind.  Close  by  the  gate 
somebody  was  standing.  A  stranger  ?  And  why 
did  he  look  so  little  strange  ?  Rotha's  eyes  grew 
big  unconsciously,  while  she  likewise  utterly  for- 


DISCOVERIES.  607 

got  that  they  were  framed  in  a  setting  of  wet  eye- 
lashes; and  then  there  came  flashing  changes  in 
her  face.  I  cannot  describe  how  all  the  lines  of  it 
altered;  and  fire  leapt  to  her  eye,  not  without  an 
alternating  shadow  however,  a  sort  of  shadow  of 
doubt;  her  lips  parted,  but  she  could  not  bring  out 
a  word.  The  stranger  stood  still  likewise,  and 
looked,  and  I  am  not  sure  but  his  eyes  opened  a 
little ;  light  came  into  them  too,  and  a  smile. 

"Have  I  found  you?"  he  said.  "Perhaps  you 
will  let  me  come  in." 

And  while  Rotha  remained  in  stupid  bewilder- 
ment and  uncertainty  of  everything  except  the 
identity  of  the  person  before  her,  he  laid  hold  of 
tke  latch  of  the  gate  and  made  his.  own  words 
good ;  Rotha  giving  way  just  enough  to  allow  of  it. 
I  think  the  new-comer  was  a  little  uncertain  as 
well;  nevertheless  he  was  not  the  sort  of  man  to 
eiiew  uncertainty. 

"  Is  this  my  little  Rotha?"  he  said  as  he  came  up 
to  her;  and  then,  taking  her  hand,  he  began  just 
where  he  left  off,  by  stooping  and  kissing  her. 
That  roused  Rotha,  as  much  as  ever  the  kiss  of  the 
prince  in  the  fairy  tale  woke  the  sleeping  beauty. 
The  blood  flushed  all  over  her  face,  she  pulled  her 
hand  away,  and  flung  herself  as  it  were  upon  the 
gate  again ;  laying  hold  of  the  bars  of  it  and  bend- 
ing down  her  face  upon  her  arms.  What  did  he 
do  that  for  ?  and  had  he  a  right  ?  After  leaving 
her  unthought  of  for  so  many  years,  was  he  en- 
titled to  speak  to  her  and  look  at  her  and— kiss 


DM  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 


joM  a*  he  coold  do  once  when  she  was  a 
child  ?  Botha's  mind  "Wtm  in  terrible  tumult,  for 
•lit  •illMJiniliiifc  this  protest  of  reason,  or  of  feel- 
ing, that  touch  of  his  lips  upon  her  lipe  had  waked 
up  aH  the  eld  past;  it  was  just  like  the  kiss  with 

•  ..  ;_  ;.r  liJ  bid  ha  good  bjettm  ypon  ipi  :  bof 
whether  ID  migifu  him  or  not*  and  whether  there 

-  —    ^:.;:^:iig  b  :::_::~v  ;:  -_  :  :,.  Bothi    fid  Baft  ;--ri 
know.     Yet  the  old  power  of  his  presence  was 
••Bating  itself  alrao0V.     AH  she  could,  do  was  to 
beep  silent,  and  the  silence  "was  of  some  little 
deration;  far  Mr.  Digby,  aa  his  old  fashion  was, 


•"  I  aee  yon  have  not  forgotten  me,"  he  said  at 

length.     **Qr—  eboald  I  say—" 

•"I  thought  JOB  ABM!  fatyiUEn.  me,  Mr.  Sonth- 
wode,"  said  Botha.  She  said  it  with  some  dignity, 
:-:_""  _-  iri  BDOMI  :':  :_  :_r  BBh  Bad  -:.^:.1:.._:  bo- 


fiie  Max    Yet  cite  could  not  raise  her  eyes  to 
him.    HOT  manner  waus  entirely  unexceptionable 
L*7^  :-7r_- 

^What  made  yon  tJninV  that?" 

**I  had  •DBoe  reason.  It  is  three  years,  just 
thue  yeaia,  ance  yon  went  away;  and  I  have 
I.T-TT  heaid  i  wori  Gmoajooiia  ifl  thai  IIBML' 

•"Yon.  have  not  heard  from  me?  How  comes 
that?" 

•"I  do  not  know  Low  it  comes.  I  have  newer 
heard.* 

^  And  an,  yon  thought  1  had  never  written.  ?" 
yon  write?  "  said  B-otha,  flashing  the  ques- 


DISCOVERIES.  ?•:•? 

tion  now  at  him  with  her  eyes.  It  was  exactly 
one  of  the  old  looks,  that  he  remembered,  bright, 
deep,  eager.  Yet  how  the  girl  had  changed ! 

**  I  wrote  a  number  of  times." 

"Tome?" 

"Yea.     I  got  no  answer." 

**  How  could  I  answer  letters  that  I  never  had?* 
cried  Botha. 

"  Could  you  not,  possibly,  have  written,  to  Hie  a 
letter  that  was  not  an  answer?" 

"Yes,  and  I  would;  O  how  I  wanted  to  write, 
many  a  time ! — but  I  did  not  know  where  to  send 
it.  I  had  not  your  address." 

"I  left  it  with  your  aunt  for  you;  or  rather,  I 
believe  I  left  it  in  a  note  for  you,  when  I  went 
away." 

"  She  never  let  me  know  as  much,"  said  Botha  a 
little  bitterly. 

"  Yon  might  have  guessed  die  had  my  address. 
Did  yon  ever  ask  her?  You  know,  I  promised  to 
give  it  to  you  ?  * 

"There  was  no  use  in  my  aAing  her  any  such 
thing.7'  said  Botha.  '"She  never  let  m«  hear  a 
word  from  you  or  about  you.  I  only  learned  by 
chance,  as  it  were,  that  you  had  gone  back  to 
England." 

"And  so  you  thought  I  had  forgotten  you?" 

"What  could  I  think?  I  did  not  want  to  think 
that,1"  said  Botha,,  feeling  somewhat  put  in  the 
wrong: 

"  I  did  not  want  yon  to  think  that    The  feast 


610  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

you  can  do  to  a  friend,  if  you  have  got  him,  is  to 
trust  him." 

"But  then,  I  thought — they  said — I  thought, 
maybe,  after  you  had  put  me  in  aunt  Serena's  care, 
you  had  done — or  thought  you  had  done — the  best 
you  could  for  me." 

"  The  best  I  could  just  at  the  moment.  I  never 
promised  to  leave  you  with  Mrs.  Busby  always, 
did  I?" 

"But  you  were  in  England,  and  busy,"  said  Ro- 
tha.  "  It  seemed — No,  it  didnt  seem  very  natural 
that  you  should  forget  all  about  me,  for  I  did  not 
think  it  was  at  all  like  you;  but  that  was  what 
people  said." 

"And  Rotha  believed?" 

"  I  almost  believed  it  at  last,"  said  Rotha,  very 
sorry  to  confess  the  fact. 

"  What  do  you  think  now  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  was  mistaken.  But,  Mr.  Digby,  three 
years  is  a  long  time ;  and  after  all,  why  should  you 
remember  me?  I  was  nothing  to  you;  only  a  child 
that  you  had  been  very  kind  to." 

He  was  silent.  What  was  she  to  him  indeed  ? 
And  what  sort  of  relations  was  he  to  maintain  be- 
tween them  now  ?  She  was  not  a  child  any  longer. 
Here  was  a  tall,  graceful  girl,  albeit  dressed  in  ex- 
ceedingly plain  garments;  the  garments  could  not 
hide  and  even  rather  emphasized  the  fact,  for  she 
was  graceful  in  spite  of  them.  And  the  promise 
of  the  child's  face  was  abundantly  fulfilled  in  the 
woman.  Features  very  fine,  eyes  of  changing  and 


DISCOVERIES.  611 

flashing  power,  all  the  indications  that  he  well  re- 
membered of  a  nature  passionate,  tender,  sensitive 
and  strong;  while  there  was  also  a  certain  veil  of 
sweetness  and  patience  over  them  all,  which  he  did 
not  remember.  Mr.  South wode  began  dimly  to  per- 
ceive that  he  could  not  take  up  things  just  where 
he  left  them;  what  he  left  was  not  in  existence. 
In  place  of  the  passionate,  variable,  wilful  child, 
here  was  a  developed,  sensitive,  and  withal  very 
beautiful  woman.  What  was  he  to  do  with  her  ? 
or  what  could  he  do  for  her? 

Unconsciously,  the  two  had  begun  slowly  pac- 
ing towards  the  house,  and  Rotha  was  the  one  to 
break  the  silence.  Happily,  her  companion's  scru- 
ples did  not  enter  her  head. 

"What  brought  you  here,  Mr.  Digby?  How 
ever  came  you  to  Tanfield  ?  " 

"To  look  after  that  little  girl  you  thought  I  had 
forgotten,"  he  said  with  a  slight  smile. 

"But  what  made  you  come  here?  Did  you  know 
I  was  here  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all.  I  could  not  find  out  anything  of 
your  whereabouts;  except  indeed  that  you  were 
'  in  the  country.'  So  much  I  learned." 

"  From  w]iom  ?  " 

"From  Mrs.  Busby." 

"From  my  aunt!  You  have  seen  her!  When 
did  you  see  her  ?  " 

"Yesterday;  immediately  upon  my  arrival." 

"Then  you  have  only  just  come?  From  En- 
gland, I  mean." 


612  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Only  just  come." 

Eotha  paused.  This  statement  was  delightfully- 
soothing 

"  And  you  saw  aunt  Serena  ?  And  what  did  she 
say?" 

"  She  said  nothing.  I  could  get  nothing  out  of 
her,  of  what  I  wanted  to  hear.  She  said  you  were 
quite  well,  making  a  visit  at  a  friend's  house  in  the 
country." 

"That — is — not — true!"  said  Kotha  slowly  and 
indignantly.  "  Did  she  tell  you  that  ?  " 

"  Are  you  not  making  a  visit  here  ?  " 

"  What  is  a  '  visit '  ?  No,  I  am  not.  And,  it  is 
not  a  friend's  house,  either." 

"  How  came  you  here  ?  and  when  ?  and  what  for, 
then  ?  "  said  he  now  in  his  turn. 

"I  came — some  time  in  last  May;  near  the  end, 
I  believe." 

"Why?" 

Kotha  lifted  her  eyes  to  his.  "  I  do  not  know," 
she  said. 

"  What  was  the  alleged  reason  for  your  coming  ?  " 

"Aunt  Serena  was  going,  she  said,  to  Chicago, 
on  a  visit,  and  my  presence  would  not  be  conven- 
ient. I  could  not  stay  in  the  house  in  New  York 
alone.  So  I  was  sent  here.  That  is  all  I  know." 

"Sent?" 

Rotha  nodded.     "Yes." 

"'Not  brought?" 

"Ono!" 

"  Did  you  come  alone  ?  " 


DISCOVERIES.  613 

A  sudden  spasm  seemed  to  catch  the  girl's  heart; 
she  stopped  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands ; 
and  for  a  minute  or  two  there  came  a  rush  of  hot 
tears,  irrepressible  and  unmanageable.  Why  they 
came  Rotha  did  not  know,  and  was  surprised  at 
them ;  but  there  was  a  quiver  and  a  glitter  in  her 
face  when  she  took  her  hands  down,  which  shewed 
to  her  companion  that  the  clouds  and  the  sunshine 
were  at  strife  somewhere.  They  walked  on  a  few 
paces  more,  and  then,  coming  full  in  sight  of  the 
house,  Rotha's  steps  stayed. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  she  said.  "I  have  no 
place  to  take  you  to,  in  there." 

Mr.  Digby's  eyes  made  a  survey  of  the  building 
before  him. 

"  0  it  is  large  enough — there  is  room,  and  rooms, 
enough,"  said  Rotha;  "  but  it  is  all  unused  and  un- 
opened. I  have  one  corner,  at  the  top  of  the  house ; 
and  down  in  another  corner  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Purcell 
have  their  kitchen  and  a  little  sleeping  place  off  it; 
all  the  rest  is  desert." 

"  Who  are  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Purcell  ?  " 

"  Aunt  Serena's  tenants — farmers — I  do  not  know 
what  to  call  them.  They  might  be  servants,  but 
they  are  not  that  exactly." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  there  is  no  other  person  in 
the  house  ?  " 

"No  other  person." 

Mr.  Southwode  began  to  go  forward  again,  slow- 
ly, looking  at  everything  as  he  went. 

"  What  do  you  hear  from  your  aunt  ?  " 


614  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Nothing.  0  yea,  I  have  had  one  scrap  of  a 
note  from  her;  some  time  ago;  but  it  told  me 
nothing:" 

"  Have  you  written  to  her  ?  " 

"Over  and  over;  till  I  was  tired." 

"  Have  you  written  to  no  one  else  ?  " 

"  Why  of  course !  I  wrote  to  Mrs.  Mowbray, 
again  and  again;  and  to  one  or  two  of  the  girls; 
but  I  never  got  an  answer.  The  whole  world  has 
seemed  dead,  and  been  dead,  for  me." 

They  slowly  paced  by  the  house,  and  began  to 
go  down  the  sweep  towards  the  other  gate. 

"Alone  with  these  two  servants  for  five  months!" 
Mr.  Southwode  said.  "  Rotha,  what  sort  of  a  life 
have  you  been  living  all  this  while  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  the  girl  catching  her 
breath.  "  Rather  queer.  I  suppose  it  has  been 
good  for  me." 

"  What  makes  you  suppose  that  ?  " 

"I  tkink  I  can  feel  that  it  has." — But  Rotha 
added  no  more. 

"Is  confidence  between  us  not  fully  reestab- 
lished?" he  asked  with  a  smile. 

"  0  yes — if  you  care  to  know,"  Rotha  answered 
hesitatingly,  at  the  same  time  finding  herself  ready 
to  slide  back  into  the  old  habit  of  being  very  open 
with  him. 

"  I  care  to  know — if  you  like  to  tell  me." 

"  It  has  been  a  queer  life,"  she  repeated.  "  I 
have  been  living  between  two  things, — my  Bible, 
and  the  garden.  There  was  an  interval  of  some 


DISCOVERIES.  615 

weeks  not  long  ago,  when  Mrs.  Purcell  was  sick ; 
and  then  I  lived  largely  in  the  kitchen." 

"  Go  on,  and  tell  me — But  how  can  you  go  on  ! " 
Mr.  South wode  found  himself  approaching  the  gate 
and  road  again,  and  suddenly  broke  off.  "I  cannot 
keep  you  standing  here  by  the  hour,  and  a  little 
time  will  not  do  for  us.  Pray,  if  you  have  no  place 
to  take  me  to,  where  do  you  yourself  live  ?  " 

The  laughing  glance  that  came  to  him  now  was 
precisely  another  of  the  child's  looks  that  he  re^ 
membered;  a  look  that  recognized  his  sympathy, 
and  answered  it  out  of  a  fund  of  heart  treasure. 

"I  live  between  my  corner  at  the  top  of  the 
house,  and  Mrs.  Purcell's  corner  at  the  bottom.  I 
have  no  place  but  my  room  and  her  kitchen." 

"  Where  can  I  see  you  ?  We  have  a  great  deal 
to  talk  about.  Rotha,  suppose  you  go  for  a  drive 
with  me  ?  " 

Rotha's  eyes  sparkled.  "  It  would  not  be  the  first 
time,"  she  said. 

"  No.  Then  the  next  question  is,  when  can  we 
go  ?  "  He  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  It  is  too  late  for  this  afternoon,"  Rotha  opined. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is.  I  do  not  think  we  can  man- 
age it.  Then — Rotha,  will  you  be  ready  to-morrow 
morning  ?  How  early  can  you  be  ready  ?  " 

"  We  have  breakfast  about  half  past  six." 

"We?" 

"Yes,"  said  Rotha  half  laughing.  "We.  That 
is,  Mr.  Purcell,  and  his  wife,  and  myself." 

"  Do  you  take  your  meals  wiih  these  people  ?  " 


616  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Rotha  nodded.  "  And  in  their  kitchen.  It  is  the 
only  place." 

"  But  they  are  not — What  are  they  ?  " 

"  Not  what  you  would  call  refined  persons,"  said 
Rotha,  while  again  the  laugh  of  amusement  and 
pleasure  in  her  eyes  shone  through  an  iris  of 
sudden  tears.  "  No — they  have  been  kind  to  me, 
though,  in  their  way." 

"  As  kind  as  their  allegiance  to  Mrs.  Busby  per- 
mitted," said  Mr.  Southwode  drily,  recognizing  at 
the  same  time  the  full  beauty  of  this  look  I  have 
tried  to  describe.  "Well!  That  is  over.  How 
early  to-morrow  will  you  be  ready  to  come  away  ?  " 

"  To  come  away  ?  "  repeated  Rotha.  "  For  a  drive, 
you  mean?" 

"For  a  drive  from  this  place.  It  is  not  my  pur- 
pose ever  to  bring  you  back  again." 

The  colour  darted  vividly  into  Rotha's  cheeks, 
and  a  corresponding  flash  came  to  her  eye.  Yet 
she  stood  still  and  silent,  while  the  colour  went 
and  came.  Never  here  again?  Then  whither? 
and  under  what  guardianship  ?  His  own  ?  There 
came  a  great  heart  leap  of  joy  at  this  suggestion, 
but  with  it  came  also  a  vague  pull-back  of  doubt; 
the  origin  of  which  probably  lay  in  words  she  had 
heard  long  ago  and  never  forgotten,  the  tendency 
of  which  was  to  throw  scruples  in  the  way  of  such 
an  arrangement  or  to  cast  some  slur  upon  it.  Was 
there  an  echo  of  them  in  Rotha's  young  conscious- 
ness ?  She  did  feel  that  she  was  a  child  no  longer ; 
that  there  was  a  difference  since  the  old  time.  Yet 


DISCOVERIES.  617 

she  was  still  as  simple,  nearly,  as  a  child;  and  of 
that  sort  of  truth  in  her  own  heart  which  readily  be- 
lieves truth  in  others.  Mr.  Digby's  truth  she  knew. 
Altogether  there  was  a  confusion  of  thoughts  with- 
in her,  which  he  saw,  though  he  did  not  read. 

"Do  you  owe  anything  to  these  people  here?" 
he  asked,  a  sudden  question  rising  in  his  mind. 

"Owe?  To  Mr.  Purcell  and  his  wife?  No.  I 
owe  them  for  a  good  deal  of  kindness.  0 !  you 
mean — Yes,  in  one  sense  I  owe  them.  I  have  never 
paid  them  anything." 

"  For  your  board,  and  their  care  of  you  ?  " 

"No. — I  do  not  owe  them  for  much  care"  said 
Kotha  smiling.  "  I  have  taken  care  of  myself  since 
I  have  been  here." 

"Do  I  understand  you?  Has  nobody  paid  them 
anything  for  your  stay  here  ?  " 

"Nobody." 

"  Upon  what  footing  were  you  here,  then  ?  " 

"  It  has  no  name,"  said  Rotha  contentedly.  She 
could  be  gay  now  over  this  anomalous  past.  "  I  do 
not  know  what  to  call  it." 

"  Has  your  aunt  allowed  you  to  depend  upon 
these  people  ?  " 

"Yes.  I  have  not  really  depended  upon  them, 
Mr.  South wode.  I  promised  myself,  and  I  promised 
Mrs.  Purcell,  that  some  day,  if  I  ever  could  do  it,  I 
would  live  to  pay  her.  If  I  could  have  got  any 
work  to  do,  I  would  have  taken  it,  and  paid  her 
before  now;  but  I  had  no  chance.  I  could  see 
nobody." 


618  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  How  literally  is  that  to  be  taken  ?  " 
"  With  absolute  literalness.     I  have  seen  nobody 
but  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Purcell  since  I  came  here.     Be- 
gan almost  to  think  I  never  should." 
"But  Sundays?" 
'<  What  of  Sundays?" 
"  Did  you  not  go  to  church  somewhere  ?  " 
"Yes,"  said   Rotha   smiling;    "in   my  pleasant 
corner  room  at  the  top  of  the  house.     Nowhere 
else." 

"Why  not?" 

"It  is  not  the  habit  of  the  people.  And  their 
habit,  I  found,  1  could  not  change." 

"  What  did  you  do  with  your  Sundays  ?  " 
"  Spent  them  alone  with  my  Bible.     And  often 
they  were  very,  very  pleasant;  though  I  found  it 
difficult  to  keep  up  such  study  all  alone,  through 
the  long  days." 

"  I  must  not  let  you  stand  here  any  longer ! 
Will  you  be  ready  for  me  at  eleven  o'clock  to- 
morrow ?  " 

"  Yes.     There  is  no  difficulty  in  that" 
"  Then  I  will  be  here  at  eleven.     Good  bye ! " 
He   gave  her  his  hand,  looked  at  her  a  little 
steadily,   but  Rotha  could  not  tell  what  he  was 
thinking  of;  then  as  he  let  go  her  hand  he  lifted 
his  hat  and  turned  away. 

A  flush  of  colour  came  over  Rotha's  face,  and 
she  was  glad  to  turn  too ;  to  hide  it.  .  Walking  up 
to  the  house,  she  tried  to  think  what  Mr.  South- 
wode  meant  by  that  last  gesture.  She  was  half 


DISCOVERIES.  619 

pleased,  and  half  not  pleased.  It  was  the  manner 
of  a  gentleman  to  a  stranger;  she  was  no  stranger. 
But  it  was  also  the  manner  of  a  gentleman  towards 
a  lady.  Did  he  recognize  her  then  for  one  ?  for  a 
grown-up  woman  ?  a  child  no  longer  ?  and  was  he 
going  to  take  on  distance  in  his  behaviour  to  her  ? 
She  did  not  like  the  idea.  That  thought  however, 
and  all  thoughts,  soon  merged  in  a  feeling  of  exceed- 
ing joy.  In  the  surprise  and  strangeness  of  the 
first  meeting,  Rotha  had  hardly  had  time  to  know 
how  she  felt;  no  Aurora  Borealis  is  more  splendid 
than  the  rosy  rays  of  light  which  began  now  to 
stream  up  into  her  sky.  She  knew  and  began  to 
realize  that  she  was  overwhelmingly  happy.  There 
were  questions  unsolved  and  not  easy  to  solve; 
tl^ere  were  uncertainties  and  perplexities  in  her 
future;  she  half  discerned  that;  but  she  could  not 
give  attention  to  it,  in  the  present  she  was  so  ex- 
ceedingly glad.  And  she  need  not;  for  did  not 
Mr.  Digby  always  know  what  to  do  with  perplexi- 
ties ?  She  belonged  to  him  again,  and  he,  not  her 
aunt  any  more,  had  the  disposal  of  her ;  it  was  the 
old  time  come  back.  She  was  no  longer  alone  and 
forlorn;  no  longer  divided  from  her  best  friend; 
what  of  very  hard  or  very  evil  could  come  to  her 
now? 

She  felt  she  was  too  much  excited  to  bear  the 
sight  of  Mrs.  Furcell  just  yet ;  she  turned  into  the 
old  garden  to  gather  some  pears.  For  the  last 
time !  It  rang  in  Rotha's  heart  like  a  peal  of  bells. 
The  glint  of  the  October  sun,  warm  and  mellow 


620  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

on  yellow  leaves  and  on  leaves  yet  green,  on  tree 
branches  and  even  garden  palings,  was  like  a  re- 
flection from  the  inner  sunshine  which  even  so 
shone  upon  everything.  The  world  had  not  looked 
so  when  she  came  out  of  the  house  that  afternoon ; 
everything  was  changed.  No  more  under  the  do- 
minion of  her  aunt  Busby!  how  Rotha's  heart  leapt 
at  the  thought.  No  longer  to  be  shut  up  here  with 
the  two  Purcell  people,  and  having  an  indefinite 
prospect  of  dull  isolation  and  hopeless  imprison- 
ment before  her.  WJiat  was  before  her,  Rotha  did 
not  indeed  know;  only  Mr.  Digby  was  in  it,  and 
that  was  enough,  and  security  for  all  the  rest. 

She  was  thinking  this,  when  it  suddenly  occurred 
to  her,  that  she  had  known  all  along  that  the  love 
and  power  of  a  heavenly  friend  had  been  in  her  fu- 
ture ;  and  yet  the  knowledge  had  never  given  her 
the  rest  and  the  content  that  the  certainty  of  the 
human  friend  gave.  Rotha  stopped  picking  pears 
and  stood  still,  sorry  and  ashamed.  It  was  true ;  she 
could  not  deny  it;  and  it  grieved  her.  So  this  was 
all  her  faith  amounted  to,  her  faith  in  the  Friend 
who  is  better  and  surer  immeasurably  than  all  other 
friends !  She  could  trust  Mr.  Digby  with  a  trust 
that  made  her  absolutely  careless  and  happy;  she 
could  not  trust  Christ  so.  It  grieved  Rotha  keenly; 
it  made  her  ashamed  with  a  genuine  and  wholesome 
shame ;  but  the  fact  stood. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

PERPLEXITIES. 

SHE  went  in  with  a  lapful  of  pears.  By  the  way 
she  had  made  up  her  mind  not  to  speak  of 
what  had  happened.  She  had  been  considering. 
Joe  and  Prissy  were  certainly  kind  to  her,  and 
kindly  disposed;  yet,  what  had  become  of  her  let- 
ters ?  They  had  all  been  intrusted  to  Mr.  Purcell, 
to  mail  or  have  mailed  in  Tanfield.  Did  that  fact 
stand  in  connection  with  the  other  fact,  that  no  an- 
swers ever  came?  It  was  plain  now  that  Mrs. 
Busby  had  been  playing  a  deep  game ;  plain  that  it 
had  been  her  purpose  to  keep  Rotha  hidden  away 
at  least  from  one  person.  Rotha  was  the  least  in. 
the  world  of  a  suspicious  nature;  nevertheless  she 
felt  uncertain  what  course  Joe  and  Prissy  might 
see  fit  to  take  if  they  knew  of  what  was  planning ; 
she  resolved  they  should  not  know.  If  only  they 
had  not  seen  Mr.  South wode  already !  he  would 
stand  so  in  sight  of  the  house.  But  Prissy  looked 
very  unsuspicious. 

"  Well,  I  do  think !  "  she  began.     "  I  should  say, 
you  wanted  some  pears.    What  ever  did  you  s'pose 
was  goin'  to  be  done  with  'em  ?  " 
(621) 


622  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Eat  them  !  "  said  Rotha  cheerily,  emptying  her 
apronful  upon  the  table. 

"  The  boards  is  just  scoured !  And  them  aint  the 
kind." 

"The  kind  for  what?  They  are  ripe,  are  they 
not?" 

"Ripe  enough  for  doin'  up.  I  can  make  pear 
honey  of  'em.  They'd  ha'  been  good  done  with 
molasses,  if  I'd  ha'  had  'em  in  time.  You  can't  do 
uothin'  with  'em  as  they  be.  They'd  draw  your 
mouth  all  up." 

Rotha  looked  at  her  pears  and  laughed.  "  Shews 
how  much  I  know ! "  she  said. 

"  Folks  as  lives  in  the  City  o'  Pride  don't  know 
much  o'  things !  "  remarked  Prissy. 

"The  City  of  Pride.  Why  do  you  call  New 
York  that?" 

"Aint  it?" 

"  I  do  not  know  that  there  is  more  pride  there 
than  in  other  places.  Pride  is  in  people — not  in 
the  places  where  people  live.  I  think  you  are 
pretty  proud,  Prissy." 

"  That's  all  us  has  got  to  keep  us  up,"  rejoined 
Mrs.  Purcell.  "  Do  you  think  pride's  wrong  ?  " 

"Yes,  and  so  do  you,  if  you  believe  your  little 
book  up  there  on  the  mantelpiece." 

"What's  in  it  about  pride?"  inquired  Prissy 
quickly. 

"Do  you  not  recollect?  The  Lord  said,  'How 
can  ye  believe,  which  receive  honour  one  of  an- 
other.' Here  it  is."  She  took  the  little  volume 


PERPLEXITIES.  623 

from  the  mantel  shelf  and  found  the  place.  Prissy 
looked  at  it. 

"  What's  the  harm  ?  "  she  said. 

"Never  mind,  if  you  don't  understand.  The 
Lord  said  it;  and  he  knows." 

"  What's  come  to  you  ?  "  Prissy  asked  suddenly. 
"  You're  twice  as  much  of  a  girl  as  you  was  this 
mornin'." 

"Ami? 

"Somethin's  done  you  a  heap  o'  good.  Your 
face  is  fired  up;  and  your  eyes  is  two  colours,  and 
there's  somethin'  shinin'  out  o'  'em." 

"I  do  feel  better,"  said  Rotha  soberly.  And 
after  that  she  was  careful  to  be  sober  as  long  as 
supper  lasted. 

When  she  went  up  to  her  room  she  sat  down  to 
think  at  leisure.  The  light  was  fading  out  of  the 
depths  of  the  tulip  tree;  the  stars  were  twinkling 
in  the  dark  blue ;  the  still  air  was  a  little  frosty. 
Yes,  the  year  had  sped  on  a  good  part  of  its  course, 
since  that  May  evening  when  Rotha  had  first  made 
friends  with  the  big  tulip  tree.  Near  five  months 
ago  it  was,  and  now  the  days  were  growing  short 
again.  O  was  it  possible  that  her  release  had 
come?  And  not  the  release  she  had  hoped  for, 
but  this  ?  so  much  better !  Only  five  months ;  and 
her  little  imprisonment  was  ended,  and  its  lessons 
all — were  they  all — learned?  With  her  heart  fill- 
ing and  swelling,  Rotha  sat  by  her  window  and 
thought  everything  over,  one  thing  after  another. 
She  had  trusted;  she  might  have  trusted  better! 


624  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Her  aunt's  sending  her  to  this  place  had  separated 
her  from  nothing,  not  even  from  Mr.  Digby.  Here 
he  was,  and  had  her  again  under  his  protection; 
and  it  was  he  henceforth  who  woiild  say  what  she 
should  do  and  where  she  should  go.  Not  Mrs. 
Busby  henceforth.  Rotha's  heart  thrilled  and 
throbbed  with  inexpressible  joy.  Not  without 
queer  other  thrills  also,  of  what  might  be  de- 
scribed as  an  instinct  of  scruple;  a  certain  inner 
consciousness  that  in  this  condition  of  things  there 
was  somewhat  anomalous  and  difficult  to  adjust. 
Yet  I  am  by  no  means  sure  that  this  consciousness 
did  in  any  wise  abate  the  joy.  Eotha  went  over 
now  in  imagination  all  her  interview  with  Mr. 
Southwode;  recalled  all  he  said,  and  remembered 
how  he  looked  at  each  turn  of  the  conversation. 
And  the  more  she  mused,  the  more  her  heart 
bounded.  Till  at  last  she  recollected  that  there 
was  something  else  to  be'  done  before  eleven 
o'clock  to-morrow;  and  she  went  from  reverie  to 
very  busy  activity. 

It  was  all  done,  all  she  had  to  do,  before  break- 
fast time  next  day.  After  breakfast  Rotha  was  in 
great  doubt  how  to  manage.  If  she  dressed  for  her 
departure,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Purcell  would  find  out  that 
something  was  going  to  happen,  and  perhaps  try 
to  hinder  it.  If  she  waited  in  her  room  until  called 
for,  she  did  not  know  but  they  would  deny  her 
being  in  the  house  at  all  and  bar  access  to  her. 
Doubtless  Mr.  Digby  would  not  be  permanently 
barred  out,  or  thwarted  in  what  he  meant  to  do ; 


PERPLEXITIES.  625 

but  Rotha  could  not  endure  the  thought  of  delay 
or  disappointment.  She  would  have  gone  out  to 
meet  him;  but  she  was  no  longer  a  child,  and 
a  feeling  of  maidenly  reserve  forbade  her.  She 
made  everything  ready ;  knew  she  could  change  her 
dress  in  five  minutes ;  and  went  down  to  the  kitch- 
en about  ten  o'clock ;  she  could  not  stay  any  longer 
away  from  the  scene  of  action.  She  took  a  knife 
and  helped  Mrs.  Purcell  pare  the  pears  for  stewing. 

"You  have  been  very  kind  to  me,  Prissy,"  she 
said,  after  some  time  of  busy  silence. 

"  'Cause  I  warnt  no  more  put  out  about  the  pears, 
you  mean  ?  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  I  was  fit  to  bite  a 
tenpenny  nail  off,  when  I  see  you  come  in  with 
that  lapful  last  night.  But  I  knowed  you  didn't 
know  no  better.  If  Joe  warn't  so  set  I'd  make  him 
pick  the  pears;  but  he  always  says  and  sticks  to  it, 
the  fruits  o'  the  earth  what  grows  on  trees  aint  no 
good.  He'll  eat  'em  fast  enough,  I  tells  him,  and 
so  he  will ;  as  long  as  I'll  stand  to  cook  'em ;  but  he 
won't  lift  never  a  hand  to  get  'em  off  the  trees. 
No  thin'  but  corn  and  oats,  and  them  things,  is  work 
for  a  man,  he  thinks." 

"  Unreasonable — "  said  Rotha. 

"When  isn't  men  unreasonable? — What  do  you 
want,  sir  ?  This  aiut  the  front  o'  the  house." 

And  Rotha  came  round  with  a  start,  for  there, 
at  the  door  of  the  kitchen,  at  the  top  of  the  steps 
leading  up  from  the  scullery,  stood  Mr.  Southwode ; 
and  Prissy's  question  had  been  put  with  a  strong 
displeased  emphasis. 


626  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"I  know  it,"  said  the  intruder  in  answer,  "and  I 
beg  yoTir  pardon ;  but — Does  anybody  live  at  the 
front  of  the  house  ? 

"  Them  as  tries,  finds  out,"  said  Mrs.  Purcell,  with 
a  fierce  knitting  of  her  brows. 

"  That  is  also  true,  as  1  have  learned  by  experi- 
ence. I  found  that  nobody  lived  there." 

"  Who  did  you  think  lived  there  ?  Who  do 
you  want?"  asked  Prissy,  ungrammatically,  but 
pointedly. 

"  Am  I  speaking  to  Mrs.  Purcell  ?  "  And  then 
the  new-comer  smiled  at  Rotha  and  shook  hands 
with  her. 

"That  is  my  name,"  said  Prissy.     "  It  aint  her'n." 

"  I  am  aware  of  that  too,"  said  the  stranger  com- 
posedly, "  and  my  present  business  is  with  Mrs.  Pur- 
cell. I  wish  to  know,  in  the  first  place,  how  many 
weeks  Miss  Carpenter  has  been  in  your  house  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  want  to  know  for  ?  "  said  Prissy. 
"  Is  it  any  business  o'  yourn  ?  " 

"Yes.  I  may  say  it  is  nobody  else's  busi- 
ness. You  have  a  right  to  ask;  and  that  is  my 
answer." 

"  WThat  do  you  want  to  know  for  ?  " 

"  I  wish  to  discharge  your  account.  Miss  Car- 
penter promised  that  you  should  be  honestly  paid, 
when  the  time  came;  and  the  time  is  come  now." 

"  Be  you  come  from  Mis'  Busby  ?  " 

"  I  saw  Mrs.  Busby  a  few  days  ago." 

"  And  she  sent  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  honoured  with  any  commission  from 


PERPLEXITIES.  627 

Mrs.  Busby.  As  I  told  you,  this  business  is  mine, 
not  hers." 

"  Mis'  Busby  put  her  here  in  us's  care ;  and  us  is 
bound  to  take  care  of  her,  Joe  and  me.  Us  c.an't 
take  no  orders  but  from  Mis'  Busby." 

"  No ;  but  you  can  take  money  ?  Mrs.  Busby,  I 
think,  will  not  pay  you.  I  will.  But  I  must  do  it 
now.  I  am  going  away,  and  may  probably  never 
come  this  way  again." 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  have  to  do,  a  payin'  Miss 
Carpenter's  o win's,"  said  Prissy,  eyeing  him  sus- 
piciously from  head  to  foot. 

"  The  best  reason  in  the  world. — Rotha,  will  you 
go  and  get  ready  ?  " — and  then  as  the  door  closed 
upon  Rotha  Mr.  Southwode  went  on. — "  Miss  Car- 
penter has  been  under  my  care  ever  since  she  lost 
her  mother.  I  placed  her  with  her  aunt  when  I 
was  obliged  to  go  abroad,  to  England;  and  now 
I  am  come  to  take  her  away." 

"  To  take  Rotha  away  ?  "  cried  Prissy. 

"To  take  Miss  Cai-penter  away." 

"  Maybe  Mis'  Busby  don't  want  her  to  go." 

"Maybe  not.  But  that  is  of  no  consequence. 
Let  me  have  your  account,  please." 

"Be  you  goin'  to  many  her?"  Prissy  asked 
suddenly. 

"  That  is  not  a  question  you  have  any  need  to 
ask." 

"I  asks  it  though," — returned  Prissy  sturdily 
"  Be  you  ?  " 

"No." 


628  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Then  I  wish  you'd  go  and  talk  to  Mr.  Purcell, 
'cos  I  don'  know  nothin'  about  it.  If  you  was  goin' 
to  marry  her,  stands  to  reason  everything  else  gives 
way;  folks  must  get  married,  if  they  has  a  mind  to; 
but  if  you  aint,  I  don't  see  into  it,  and  don't  see  no 
sense  in  it.  Mr.  Purcell's  at  the  barn.  I  wish  you'd 
just  go  and  talk  to  him." 

"  I  have  had  trouble  enough  to  find  you,"  said 
the  gentleman;  "I  shall  not  try  to  find  Mr.  Pur- 
cell.  If  you  wish  me  to  see  him,  I  will  wait  here 
till  you  bring  him." 

And  so  saying,  Mr.  Southwode  deposited  his  hat 
on  the  table  and  himself  sat  down.  Prissy  gave 
him  glance  after  glance,  unsatisfied  and  uneasy. 
She  did  long  to  refer  things  to  Joe;  and  she 
saw  she  could  not  manage  her  unwelcome  vis- 
iter;  so  finally  she  took  off  her  apron  and  threw 
it  over  her  head  and  set  off  on  a  run  for  the  barn. 
Meanwhile  Rotha  came  down,  all  ready  for  the 
drive. 

"  Where  are  they  all  ?  "  she  exclaimed. 

"One  gone  after  the  other.  I  think,  Eotha,  it 
will  be  the  pleasantest  way  for  you,  to  go  out  at 
once  to  the  carriage  and  wait  there  for  me ;  if  you 
will  let  me  be  so  discourteous.  You  may  as  well 
escape  the  discussion  I  must  hold  with  these  peo- 
ple. Where  is  your  luggage  ?  " 

"  I  have  only  one  little  trunk,  up  stairs  at  the  top 
of  the  house.  The  rest  of  my  things  are  at  aunt 
Busby's." 

"  We  will  not  ask  her  for  them.    I  will  take  care 


PERPLEXITIES.  629 

of  your  box  and  bring  it  along.  And  give  me 
this." 

He  took  Botha's  handbag  from  her  hand  as  he 
spoke  and  dismissed  her  with  a  smile ;  and  Kotha, 
feeling  as  if  all  sorts  of  burdens  were  lifted  from 
her  at  once,  went  out  and  went  round  to  where  a 
phaeton  was  waiting  at  the  front  of  the  house. 
And  there  she  stood,  with  her  heart  beating;  re- 
membering her  sad  coming  five  months  before: 
(but  the  five  months  seemed  five  years;)  thinking 
of  all  sorts  of  incongruous  things;  uncertain,  curi- 
ous as  what  was  to  be  done  with  her;  congratulat- 
ing herself  that  she  had  one  nice  dress,  her  travel- 
ling dress,  which  she  had  carefully  saved  until  now ; 
and  wondering  what  she  should  do  for  others,  her 
calicos  being  a  good  deal  worn  and  only  working 
dresses  at  the  best.  So  she  stood  waiting;  doubt- 
ful, yet  on  the  whole  most  glad;  questioning,  yet 
unable  to  be  anxious;  while  five  minutes  after  five 
minutes  passed  away.  At  last  came  the  proces- 
sion ;  Prissy  in  front,  her  husband  following  with 
Rotha's  trunk  on  his  shoulders,  Mr.  Southwode 
bringing  up  the  rear. 

" I  never  thought  you'd  go  like  that"  said  Prissy 
reproachfully.  "  If  us  is  poor  folks,  us  has  hands 
clean  enough  to  shake." 

"  I  never  meant  to  go  without  bidding  you  good 
bye,  Prissy/'  said  Rotha,  grasping  her  hand  heartily, 

"  Looks  awful  like  it — "  rejoined  Mrs.  Purcell. 

"  I  shall  always  remember  your  kindness  to  me," 
Rotha  went  on. 


630  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Pay  and  forget !  "  said  Prissy.  "  It's  all  paid  for 
now;  and  it's  us  as  must  give  thanks."  Then  she 
added  in  a  lower  tone,  "  Where  be  you  goin'  now?  " 

"  To  Tanfield  first,  I  suppose." 

Prissy  looked  significantly  at  Mr.  Southwode, 
who  was  ordering  the  disposition  of  the  trunk,  and 
had  evidently  more  in  her  thoughts  than  she  chose 
to  utter.  Then  Joe  came  with  his  hand  outstretched 
for  a  parting  grasp,  his  face  smiling  with  satis- 
faction. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "we've  all  done  the  best  we 
could;  and  nobody  has  anything  to  be  sorry  for. 
But  we  shall  miss  you,  bad !  " 

"  All  he  cares  for  's  the  pears ! "  said  his  wife. 
"Come  along,  Joe;  if  you  are  good,  I'll  get  you 
some." 

The  wagon  drove  off  before  Rotha  could  hear 
Joe's  answer.  She  was  gone  !  The  weary  months 
of  imprisonment  were  done  and  passed.  What  was 
to  follow  now? 

Rotha  could  not  think,  could  not  care.  The 
phaeton  was  rolling  smoothly  along;  she  was  trav- 
ersing easily  the  long  stretch  of  highway  she  had 
looked  at  so  often ;  her  old  best  friend  was  in  charge 
of  her;  Rotha  gave  up  care.  Yet  questions  would 
come  up  in  her  mind,  though  she  dismissed  them 
as  fast ;  and  her  heart  kept  singing  for  joy.  She 
did  not  even  ask  whither  she  was  driven. 

She  was  going  to  the  hotel  at  Tanfield,  the  same 
where  she  had  once  put  up  alone.  Here  her  box 
was  ordered  to  a  room  which  seemed  to  have  been 


PERPLEXITIES.  631 

made  ready  for  her;  and  Mr.  Southwode  remarked 
that  lunch  would  be  ready  presently.  Rotha  took 
off  her  hat  and  joined  him  in  the  private  room 
where  it  was  prepared.  A  wood  fire  was  burning, 
and  a  table  was  set,  and  the  October  sun  shone  in, 
and  Mr.  Digby  was  there  reading  a  paper.  Rotha 
put  her  hand  upon  her  eyes;  it  seemed  too  much 
brightness  all  at  once.  Mr.  Southwode  on  his 
part  laid  down  his  paper  and  looked  at  her;  he 
was  noticing  with  fresh  surprise  the  changes  that 
three  years  had  made.  Truly,  this  was  not  what 
he  left  in  Mrs.  Busby's  care.  And  there  is  no  doubt 
Mr.  Southwode  as  well  as  Rotha  had  something  to 
think  of;  and  questions  he  had  been  debating  with 
himself  since  yesterday  came  up  with  new  em- 
phasis and  urgency.  Nothing  of  all  this  shewed. 
He  laid  down  his  paper,  stirred  up  the  fire,  gave 
Rotha  an  easier  chair  than  the  one  she  had  first 
chosen,  and  took  a  seat  opposite  her. 

"  We  have  got  to  begin  all  over  again,"  he  smil- 
ingly remarked. 

44  Oh  no  !  "  said  Rotha.     "  I  do  not  think  so." 

44  Why  ?  We  cannot  be  said  to  know  one  an- 
other now,  can  we  ?  " 

4'  I  know  you — "  said  Rotha  a  little  lower. 

44  Do  you  ?     But  I  do  not  know  you." 

"I  am  just  what  I  used  to  be,"  the  girl  said 
briskly,  raising  her  head. 

"By  your  own  shewing,  not.  The  bird  I  left 
would  have  beat  its  wings  lame  against  the  bars 
of  the  cage  I  found  it  in." 


032  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  I  did  beat  my  wings  pretty  lame  at  first,"  said 
Rotha;  "but  not  in  this  cage." 

"  In  what  one  then  ?  "  he  asked  quickly. 

"  Oh — after  you  went  away.     I  mean  that  time." 

"  What  made  the  cage  at  that  time  ?  " 

"Aunt  Serena — and  aunt  Serena's  house." 

"  I  was  a  little  afraid  of  it.  But  I  could  not  help 
myself.  What  did  she  do  ?  " 

Rotha  hesitated  a  little. 

"  I  do  not  think  it  is  any  use  to  go  back  to  it 
now,"  she  said.  "  It  was  partly  my  own  fault.  I 
had  meant  fully  to  do  just  as  you  said,  and  be 
polite  and  quiet  and  pleasant; — and  I  could  not!" 

"And  so—  ?" 

"  And  so,  we  had  bad  times.  After  aunt  Serena 
kept  me  from  seeing  you  and  bidding  you  good 
bye,  or  even  knowing  that  you  were  gone,  I  could 
not  forgive  her.  And  she  knew  she  had  wronged 
me.  And  that  people  do  not  forget." 

"You  thought  I  had  too,  eh?" 

"No,"  said  Rotha;  "not  then.  I  knew  it  was 
her  doing." 

"It  was  wholly  her  doing.  Whenever  I  came 
and  asked  for  you,  I  was  always  told  that  you 
were  out,  or  sick  in  bed,  or  in  some  way  quite 
inable  to  see  me.  And  my  going  was  extremely 
mdden,  so  that  I  had  no  time  to  take  measures; 
>ther  than  to  write  to  you  and  enclose  my  address." 

"I  never  got  it.  And  all  those  times  1  was 
always  at  home,  and  perfectly  well,  and  some- 
times— " 


PERPLEXITIES. 

"Well— what?" 

"  Sometimes  I  was  standing  in  the  hall  up  stairs, 
leaning  over  the  balusters  and  listening  to  youi 
steps  in  the  hall." 

Colour  rose  in  Rotha's  cheek,  and  her  voice  took 
a  tone  which  told  tales;  and  Mr.  South wode  thought 
he  did  begin  to  recognize  his  little  friend  of  old 
time. 

"And  then — "  Botha  went  on,  "you  know  what 
I  used  to  be,  and  can  guess  that  I  was  not  very 
patient." 

"  I  can  guess  that.     And  what  are  you  now  ?  " 

She  flashed  one  of  her  quick  looks  at  him,  smiled 
and  blushed.  "  I  have  grown  a  little  older — "  she 
said. 

Mr.  Southwode  quite  perceived  that.  He  was 
inclined  to  believe  that  what  he  had  before  him 
was  the  ripened  fruit  which  in  its  green  state  he 
had  tried  so  hard  to  bring  into  the  sun;  grown 
sweet  and  rich  beyond  his  hopes.  He  turned  the 
conversation  however,  took  up  his  paper  again  and 
read  to  Rotha  a  paragraph  concerning  some  late 
events  in  Europe ;  from  which  they  went  off  into 
a  talk  leading  far  from  personal  affairs,  to  the 
affairs  of  nations  past  and  present,  and  branching 
off  into  questions  of  history  and  literature.  And 
Mr.  Southwode  found  again  the  Rotha  of  old,  only 
with  the  change  I  have  above  indicated.  The  talk 
was  lively  for  an  hour,  until  lunch  was  served.  It 
was  served  for  them  alone,  in  the  room  where  they 
were.  As  they  took  their  places  at  table  and  the 


634  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

meal  began,  for  a  few  minutes  there  was  silence. 
"This  is  like — and  not  like — the  old  time,"  Mr. 
Southwode  remarked  smiling. 

"  I  think  it  is  more  '  not  like,' "  said  Rotha. 

"Why,  pray?" 

Rotha  hesitated.  "I  said  just  now  I  had  not 
changed;  but  in  some  things  I  have." 

"  Grown  a  little  taller." 

"  A  good  deal,  Mr.  Southwode !  And  that  is  the 
least  of  the  changes,  I  suppose." 

"What  are  the  others?  Come,  it  is  the  very 
thing  it  imports  me  to  know.  And  the  quicker 
the  better.  Tell  me  all  you  can." 

"About  myself?" 

"  I  mean,  about  yourself!" 

"That's  difficult." 

"I  admit  it  is  difficult;  but  easier  for  a  frank 
nature,  such  as  yours  used  to  be,  than  for  another." 

Meanwhile  he  helped  her  to  things  on  the  table, 
taking  care  of  her  in  the  manner  he  used  to  do 
in  old  time.  It  put  a  kind  of  spell  upon  Rotha. 
The  old  instinct  of  doing  what  he  wished  her  to 
do  seemed  to  be  springing  up  in  its  full  impera- 
tiveness. 

"  What  do  you  want  to  know  ? "  she  asked 
doubtfully. 

"  Everything ! " 

"  Everything  is  not  much,  in  this  case.  I  have 
lived  most  of  the  time,  till  last  May,  with  Mrs. 
Mowbray;  at  school." 

"What  did  you  do  at  school?  " 


PERPLEXITIES.  ;  635 

"  Nothing.  I  began  to  do,  that  is  all.  I  have  just 
begun  to  learn.  Just  began  to  feel  that  I  was 
getting  hold  of  things,  and  that  they  were  grow- 
ing most  delightful.  Then  all  was  broken  on0." 

"That  was  last  May?" 

"Yes." 

"  Why  do  you  suppose  your  aunt  chose  just  that 
time  to  send  you  here  ?  " 

"I  have  no  idea!  She  was  going  to  Chicago, 
she  said — " 

"  You  know  she  did  not  go  ?  " 

"Did  not  go?  She  was  in  New  York  all  this 
summer  ?  " 

"So  I  understood  from  herself  In  New  York 
or  near  it." 

"Then  what  did  she  mean  by  sending  me 
here,  Mr.  Digby?  She  did  not  know  you  were 
coming." 

"You  think  that  knowledge  would  have  affected 
her  measures  ?  " 

"  I  know  it  would  ! " 

"  It  is  an  unfruitful  subject  to  inquire  into.  I 
am  afraid  your  vacations  can  hardly  have  been 
pleasant  times,  spent  in  your  aunt's  family  ?  " 

"I  was  not  always  with  her.  Quite  as  often  I 
staid  with  Mrs.  Mowbray — my  dear  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray  !  and  with  her  I  went  to  Catskill,  and  to  Ni- 
agara, and  to  Nahant,  and  to  the  Adirondacks.  I 
had  great  times.  It  was  the  next  best  thing  to — 
to  the  old  days,  when  I  was  with  you." 

"  I  should  think  it  would  have  been  much  bet- 


THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

ter,"  Mr.  South wode  said,  forbidding  the  smile 
that  was  inclined  to  come.  For  Rotha's  manner 
did  not  make  her  words  less  flattering. 

"Do  yon?  Do  you  not  know  me  better  than 
Hiat,  Mr.  Digby?"  said  Rotha,  feeling  a  little  in- 
jured. 

"  I  suppose  I  do  !  You  were  always  an  unrea- 
sonable child.  But  I  can  understand  how  you 
should  regret  Mrs.  Mowbray." 

"Now?"  said  Rotha.  " I  do  not  regret  anything 
now.  I  am  too  happy  to  tell  how  happy  I  am." 

"  I  remember,  you  are  gifted  with  a  great  capa- 
city for  happiness,"  Mr.  Southwode  said,  letting  the 
smile  come  now. 

"It  is  a  good  thing,"  said  Rotha.  "Sometimes, 
even  this  summer,  I  could  forget  my  troubles  in 
my  flower  beds.  Did  you  notice  in  what  nice  or- 
der they  were,  and  how  many  flowers  still  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  I  did  not  specially  notice." 

"Awhile  ago  they  were  full  of  bloom,  and  lovely. 
And  when  I  took  them  in  hand  they  were  a  wil- 
derness. Nobody  had  touched  them  for  ever  so 
long.  I  had  a  job  of  it.  But  it  paid." 

"  What  else  have  you  done  this  summer  ?  " 

"Nothing  else,  except  study  my  Bible.  It  was 
all  the  study  I  had." 

"  How  did  you  study  it  ?  as  a  disciple  ?  or  as  an 
inquirer  ?  " 

"  0,  as  a  disciple.  Can  one  really  study  it  in  any 
other  way  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  so.     There  is  deep  study,  and  there 


PERPLEXITIES.  637 

is  superficial  study,  you  know.  Then  you  are  a 
disciple,  Rotha?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  South wode;  a  sort  of  one.  But  I 
am  one." 

"  When  did  that  come  about?" 

"Not  so  very  long  after  you  went  away.  I 
came  to  the  time  that  you  told  me  of,  that  it  would 
come." 

"  What  time  ?     I  do  not  recollect." 

"A  time  when  everything  failed  me." — Rotha 
felt  somehow  disappointed,  that  she  should  remem- 
ber so  much  better  than  he  did. 

"  And  then  you  found  Christ  ?  " 

"Yes, — after  a  while." 

"What  have  you  been  doing  for  him  since  then?" 

"  Doing  for  him  ?  "  Rotha  repeated. 

"Yes." 

"  I  do  not  know.  Not  much.  I  am  afraid,  not 
anything." 

"  Was  that  because  you  thought  there  was  not 
much  to  do  ?  " 

"N— o,"  said  Rotha  thoughtfully;  "I  did  not 
think  that  Only  nothing  particular  for  me  to  do." 

"That  was  a  mistake." 

"  I  did  not  see  anything  for  me  to  do." 

"  Perhaps.  But  the  Lord  has  no  servants  to  be 
idle.  If  they  do  not  see  their  work,  it  is  either 
that  their  eyes  are  not  good,  or  that  they  are  look- 
ing in  the  wrong  direction." 

A  silence  followed  this  statement,  during  which 
Rotha  was  thinking. 


638  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"Mr.  Digby,  what  do  you  mean  by  their  eyes  be- 
ing not  good  ?  " 

"  Not  seeing  clearly." 

"  And  what  makes  people's  eyes  dim  to  see  their 
work  ?  " 

"A  want  of  sensitiveness  in  their  optic  nerve," 
he  said  smiling.  "It  is  written,  you  know  the 
words — 'He  died  for  all,  that  they  which  live 
should  not  live  unto  themselves,  but  unto  him 
who  died  for  them' — How  has  it  been  in  your 
case  ?  " 

"  I  never  thought  of  it,"  Rotha  answered  slowly. 
"  I  believe  my  head  has  been  just  full  of  myself, — 
learning  and  enjoying." 

"  I  do  not  want  to  check  either,  and  the  service 
of  Christ  does  not  check  either.  I  am  glad,  after 
all,  the  enjoying  has  formed  such  a  part  of  your  ex- 
perience." 

"With  Mrs.  Mowbray,  how  should  it  not?  You 
know  her  a  little,  Mr.  South wode  ?  " 

"  Only  a  little." 

"  But  you  cannot  know  her,  for  you  never  needed 
her.  O  such  a  friend  as  she  is!  Not  to  me  only, 
but  to  whoever  needs  her.  She  goes  along  life  with 
her  hands  full  of  blessings,  and  she  is  forever 
dropping  something  into  somebody's  lap;  if  it  is 
not  help,  it  is  pleasure ;  if  it  is  not  a  fruit,  it  is  a 
flower.  I  never  saw  anybody  like  her.  She  is  a 
very  angel  in  the  shape  of  a  woman ;  and  she  is 
doing  angel's  work  all  the  day  long.  I  have  seen, 
and  I  know.  All  sorts  of  help,  and  comfort,  and 


PERPLEXITIES.  639 

cheer,  and  tenderness,  and  sympathy;  and  herself 
is  the  very  last  person'  in  all  the  world  she 
thinks  of." 

"  That's  a  pretty  character,"  said  Mr.  Southwode. 

"  It  comes  out  in  everything,"  Rotha  went  on. 
"It  is  not  in  giving-  only;  she  is  forever  making 
everybody  happy,  if  she  can.  There  are  some  peo- 
ple you  cannot  make  happy.  But  nursing  them 
when  they  are  sick,  and  comforting  them  when 
they  are  in  trouble,  and  helping  them  when  they 
are  in  difficulty,  and  supplying  them  when  they  are 
in  need, — and  if  they  are  none  of  those  things,  then 
just  throwing  flowers  in  their  lap, — that  is  Mrs. 
Mowbray.  Yes,  and  she  can  reprove  them  when 
they  are  wrong,  too;  and  that  is  a  harder  service 
than  either." 

"  In  how  many  of  all  these  ways  has  she  done 
you  good,  Eotha  ?  if  I  may  ask." 

"It  is  only  pleasant  to  answer,  Mr.  Digby.  In 
all  of  them."  And  Rotha's  eyes  filled  full,  and  her 
cheek  took  fire. 

"  Not  '  supplying  need  '  also  ?  " 

"  0  yes !  O  that  was  one  of  the  first  things  her 
kind  hand  did  for  me.  Mr.  Southwode,  do  you 
know,  many  people  criticise  her  for  the  use  she 
makes  of  her  money;  they  call  her  extravagant, 
and  indiscreet,  and  all  that.  They  say  she  ought 
to  lay  up  her  money." 

"  Quite  natural." 

"  But  it  hurt  me  sometimes." 

"  It  need  not  hurt  you.     There  is  another  judg- 


G40  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

ment,  which  is  of  more  importance.  'There  is,  that 
maketh  himself  poor,  yet  hath  great  riches.'  And 
there  is,  '  that  layeth  up  treasure  for  himself,  and  is 
not  rich  towards  God.'  But  the  world  must  weigh 
according  to  its  balances,  and  they  are  too  small  to 
take  heaven  in." 

A  pause  followed.  With  the  going  back  to  Mrs. 
Mowbray  and  all  the  memories  connected  with  her, 
a  sort  of  mist  of  association  began  to  rise  in  Ro- 
tha's  mind,  to  dim  the  new  brightness  of  the  present 
time.  Uneasy  half  recollections  of  words  or  man- 
ner, or  perhaps  rather  of  the  impression  that 
words  and  manner  had  left  behind  them,  began  to 
come  floating  in  upon  her  joyousness.  The  silence 
lasted. 

"What  did  you  learn  with  Mrs.  Mowbray?" 
Mr.  Southwode  asked  at  length. 

"  Beginnings  of  things,"  said  Rotha  regretfully ; 
"  only  beginnings.  I  had  not  time  fairly  to  learn 
anything." 

"  Beginnings  of  what  ?  " 

"French,  Latin,  geometry  and  algebra,  history 
of  course,  philosophy,  chemistry, — those  were  the 
principal  things.  I  was  going  into  geology,  and  I 
wanted  to  learn  German ;  but  Mrs.  Mowbray  thought 
I  was  doing  enough  already." 

"  Enough,  I  should  think.     Music  ?  " 

"  0  no !  "  said  Rotha  smiling. 

"Drawing?" 

" No,"  said  the  girl  with  a  sigh  this  time.  "Mrs. 
Mowbray  could  not  give  me  everything  you  know, 


PERPLEXITIES.  641 

for  she  has  others  to  help.  And  aunt  Serena  would 
not  have  heard  of  such  a  thing." 

"  What  would  you  like  to  do  now,  Eotha  ?  " 

"  Do  ?     About  what,  Mr.  Digby  ?  " 

"  Learning.  I  suppose  you  would  like  to  go  on 
in  all  these  paths  of  knowledge  you  have  entered?" 

Rotha  looked  towards  him  a  little  doubtfully. 
How  did  he  mean?  Himself  to  be  her  teacher 
again  ?  But  his  next  words  explained. 

"  You  would  like  to  go  to  school  again  ?  " 

"Yes,  of  course.     I  should  like  it  very  much." 

"Then  that  is  one  thing  decided." 

"  Shall  I  go  back  to  Mrs.  Mowbray  ?  "  she  asked- 
eagerly. 

Mr.  Southwode  hesitated,  and  delayed  his  answer. 

"  I  would  rather  be  at  a  greater  distance  from 
Mrs.  Busby,"  he  confessed  then. 

And  Eotha  made  no  answer.  Those  old  impres- 
sions and  associations  were  trooping  in.  She  re- 
membered that  Mrs.  Mowbray  had  never  favoured 
the  introduction  of  Mr.  Southwode's  name  into  their 
conversations;  she  had  a  dim  apprehension  that  her 
influence  would  be  thrown  into  Mrs.  Busby's  scale, 
and  that  possibly  both  ladies  would  join  to  prevent 
her,  Rotha's,  being  under  Mr.  Southwode's  protec- 
tion and  management.  While  not  in  the  least  sus- 
picious, Rotha  was  too  fine  strung  not  to  be  an 
acute  discerner.  So  far  her  thoughts  went  dis- 
tinctly, and  it  was  enough  to  tie  her  tongue.  But 
beyond  this,  there  were  lights  and  shadows  hover- 
ing on  the  horizon,  which  followed  no  traceable 


642  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

lines  and  revealed  no  recognizable  forms,  and  yet 
made  her  feel  that  the  social  atmosphere  held  or 
might  develope  elements  not  altogether  benign 
and  peaceful.  There  had  been  words  said  or  half 
said  formerly,  on  one  or  two  occasions,  which  had 
given  her  a  clue  she  did  not  now  like  to  follow  out ; 
words  it  would  have  been  comfortable  to  forget, 
only  Rotha  did  not  forget.  She  had  forgotten  or 
dismissed  them,  but  as  I  said  they  began  to  come 
back.  Besides,  she  was  older.  She  could  see  now, 
simple  as  she  was  still,  that  in  the  relations  between 
her  and  her  guardian  there  was  something  anoma- 
lous; that  for  a  young  girl  like  her  to  be  under 
care  of  a  man  no  older  than  he,  who  was  neither 
brother  nor  uncle  nor  any  relation  at  all,  and 
for  her  to  be  eating  her  bread  at  his  expense, 
was  a  state  of  things  which  must  be  regarded  as 
unusual,  and  to  say  the  least,  questionable.  Poor 
Rotha  sat  thinking  of  this  while  she  went  on  with 
her  luncheon,  and  growing  alternately  hot  and  cold 
as  she  thought  of  it;  everything  being  aggravated 
by  an  occasional  glance  at  the  friend  opposite  her, 
whose  neighbourhood  was  so  sweet,  and  every  line 
of  his  face  and  figure  so  inexpressibly  precious  to 
her.  For  it  began  to  dawn  upon  Rotha  the  wo- 
man, what  had  been  utterly  spurned  in  idea  by  Ro- 
tha the  child,  that  this  anomalous  relation  could 
not  subsist  always.  She  must,  or  he  must,  find  a 
way  out  of  it;  and  she  preferred  that  it  should  be 
herself  and  not  he.  And  the  only  way  out  of  it 
that  Rotha  could  see,  was,  that  she  should  train 


PERPLEXITIES.  643 

herself  to  become  a  teacher;  and  so,  in  a  very  few 
years,  a  very  few,  come  to  be  self-supported.  It 
struck  her  heart  like  a  bolt  of  ice,  the  thought ;  for 
the  passionate  delight  of  Rotha's  heart  was  this 
very  friend,  from  whom  she  began  to  see  that  she 
must  separate  herself.  The  greatest  comfort  at  this 
moment  was,  that  Mr.  Southwode  himself  looked  so 
composed  and  untroubled  by  doubts  or  whatever 
else.  Yet  Mr.  Southwode  had  his  own  thoughts 
the  while;  and  to  conclude  from  the  calmness  of 
his  face  that  his  mind  was  equally  uncrossed  by  a 
question,  would  have  been  to  make  a  mistake. 

"Where  then,  if  not  to  Mrs.  Mowbray's?"  Kotha 
inquired  at  last,  breaking  a  long  silence. 

"Perhaps  Boston.  How  would  you  like  that? 
Or  would  you  be  very  sorry  not  to  return  to  New 
York?" 

"Yes,  sorry,"  said  Rotha,  "but  I  think  it  may 
be  best.  0  Boston,  or  anywhere,  Mr.  Southwode ! 
Just  what  you  think  wisest.  But — I  was  think- 
ing-" 

Rotha  laid  down  her  knife  and  fork  and  pushed 
away  her  plate.     Her  heart  began  to  beat  at  an 
uneasy  rate,  and  her  voice  grew  anxious. 
"  May  I  give  you  some  fruit  ?  " 
"No — I  do  not  care  for  it — thank  you." 
"  This  looks  like  a  good  pear.     Try." 
It  was  on  the  whole  easier  to  be  doing  something 
with  her  fingers.     Rotha  began  to  peal  the  pear. 

"You  were  thinking — ?"  Mr.  Southwode  then 
resumed. 


644  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"I? Oyes!  I  was  thinking — "  And  Botha's 

pear  and  peel  went  down.  "  I  was  thinking — Mr. 
Digby,  if  I  knew  just  what  I  was  going  to  do,  or 
be  afterwards, — wouldn't  it  help  us  to  know  what 
I  had  better  study?  what  preparation  I  ought  to 
have?" 

"Afterwards?  After  what?"  said  Mr.  South- 
wode,  without  laying  down  his  pear. 

"  After  I  have  done  with  school." 

"  When  do  you  suppose  that  will  be  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.  That  of  course  would  depend 
upon  the  other  question." 

"  Not  necessarily.  My  wish  is  that  you  should 
be  fitted  for  any  situation  in  life.  A  one-sided  edu- 
cation is  never  to  be  chosen,  if  one  can  help  it;  and 
one  generally  can  help  it.  We  can,  at  any  rate. 
What  are  you  thinking  of  doing,  Rotha?  in  that 
'  afterwards '  to  which  you  refer  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  thought  very  much  about  it.  But 
you  know  I  must  do  something.  I  suppose  teaching 
would  be  the  best.  I  dare  say  Mrs.  Mowbray  would 
take  me  for  one  of  her  helpers,  if  I  were  once  fitted 
to  fill  the  place." 

"  What  put  this  in  your  head  ?  " 

"  I  suppose,  first,  some  words  of  aunt  Serena. 
That  was  her  plan  for  me." 

"  I  thought  it  was  arranged  that  I  was  to  take 
care  of  you." 

"  You  are  doing  it,"  said  Rotha  gratefully.  "  But 
of  course  you  could  not  do  it  always." 

"Why  not?" 


PERPLEXITIES.  645 

"Why  —  because — "  said  Rotha  faltering  and 
flushing  a  little, — "I  do  not  belong  to  you  in 
any  way.  It  would  not  be  right." 

"  My  memory  is  better,  it  seems,  than  yours.  If 
I  recollect  right,  you  were  given  to  me  by  your 
mother." 

"  0  yes,"  said  Rotha,  flushing  deeper, — "  she  did. 
But  I  am  sure  she  did  not  mean  that  I  should  be  a 
charge  upon  you,  after  I  was  able  to  help  myself." 

"You  do  not  fancy  that  you  can  'help  yourself 
now  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  You  do  not  judge  that  you  are  empowered  to 
take  back  her  gift  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly.  But  Mr.  Southwode,"  said  Rotha 
half  laughing,  "  I  do  not  see  how  you  can  keep  it. 
I  must  do  something  for  myself." 

"  Not  till  I  give  permission.  Eat  your  pear,  and 
leave  business  to  me." 

It  rather  comforted  Rotha  that  this  command 
was  given  to  her;  nevertheless  and  although  the 
pear  was  a  fine  one,  she  'chewed  the  cud  of  medi- 
tation' along  with  it.  Very  inopportunely  those 
words  heard  long  ago  came  floating  back  upon  her 
memory,  making  her  uncomfortable;  making  her 
doubt  whether  she  could  possibly  remain  long  under 
the  care  that  was  so  genial  to  her.  StiH,  the  pres- 
ent was  too  good  to  be  spoiled,  albeit  the  enjoy- 
ment of  it  was  shadowed,  by  these  reflections.  I 
think,  rather,  according  to  some  perverse  principle 
of  human  nature,  they  made  the  enjoyment  of  it 


646  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

more  tremblingly  acute.  However,  the  fruit  was 
consumed  in  silence;  Mr.  'Southwode  having,  as  I 
hinted,  his  own  thoughts.  They  left  the  table  and 
took  seats  before  the  fire. 

"Now  Kotha,"  said  her  guardian,  "I  should 
like  to  know  what  you  have  done  in  these  three 
years.  Are  you  willing  that  I  should  try  to  find 
out?" 

"By  questioning  me?"  said  Rotha  laughing  and 
flushing.  "  It  would  not  be  a  new  thing,  Mr. 
Digby." 

Whereupon  Mr.  Southwode  went  into  an  exami- 
nation of  Botha's  acquirements  and  mental  stand- 
ing. It  was  pleasant  enough  and  easy  enough, 
though  it  was  searching;  it  had  too  much  savour 
of  old  times  about  it  to  be  anything  but  easy  and 
pleasant.  Rotha  did  not  fear  it,  and  so  enjoyed  it. 
And  so  did  her  examiner.  He  found  all  that  he 
had  once  known  possible  and  hoped  for  her.  The 
quick  intelligence  of  the  child  he  found  matured; 
the  keen  apprehension  practised ;  the  excellent  mem- 
ory stored,  even  beyond  what  he  expected.  And 
then,  Rotha's  capital  powers  of  reasoning  were  as 
true  and  clear-sighted  as  ever,  her  feeling  as  just 
and  unperverted;  the  thirst  for  knowledge  was  more 
developed  and  very  strong;  and  the  knowledge  al- 
ready laid  up  amounted  to  a  stock  of  surprising 
amount  and  variety. 

That  was  to  both  parties  a  very  pleasant  two 
hours.  Rotha  was  looking,  by  turns,  into  the  face 
she  loved  so  well  and  watching  the  familiar  face 


PERPLEXITIES.  647 

play,  with  the  delight  of  one  whose  eyes  have  been 
long  without  the  sight  of  what  they  loved.  More- 
over, she  was  taking  up  again  the  various  threads 
of  learning  which  had  slipped  from  her  hand,  feel- 
ing now  that  her  hold  of  them  would  not  loose 
again.  There  was  a  savour  of  old  associations,  too, 
about  this  talk,  which  was  very  fascinating;  and 
further  yet,  Eotha  had  a  subtle  consciousness  that 
she  was  satisfying  Mr.  Southwode.  And  he  on  his 
part  was  making  new  acquaintance  with  his  little 
friend  of  old,  and  noticing  with  a  little  surprise  and 
much  admiration  how  she  had  "changed  and  grown. 
The  face  which  was  always  so  eager  and  expressive 
had  taken  on  womanly  softness  and  mature  richness, 
without  losing  a  bit  of  its  changeful  fire.  The  sal- 
low skin  had  become  clear  and  fine;  the  lines  of 
the  lips,  not  less  passionate  and  not  less  decided 
than  they  used  to  be,  were'  soft  and  pure;  re- 
finement was  in  every  curve  of  them,  and  in 
all  the  face,  and  all  the  figure,  and  in  every 
movement  of  either;  and  the  deep,  flashing  eyes 
could  be  innocently  merry  and  sweet  too,  and 
constantly  answered  him  before  the  lips  could 
speak.  As  one  quarter  of  an  hour  sped  on  after 
another,  Mr.  Southwode  grew  less  and  less  ready 
to  be  relieved  of  his  charge.  Yet,  he  asked  him- 
self, what  should  he  do  with  her?  He  did  not 
entertain  the  idea  Mrs.  Purcell  had  suggested;  it 
was  not  precisely  a  disagreeable  idea,  and  it  recurred 
to  him,  in  the  midst  of  philosophy  and  mathema- 
tics; it  was  not  a  disagreeable  idea,  but — he  had 


648  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

never  entertained  it !  And  he  doubted  besides  if 
Rotha  would  easily  entertain  it.  He  knew  she  was 
fond  of  him,  fond  of  being  with  him;  but  it  was  a 
childish  fondness,  he  said  to  himself;  it  could  be 
nothing  else.  It  was  a  childish  fondness,  too  frank- 
ly shewn  to  be  anything  more  or  deeper.  And  Ro- 
tha was  very  young,  had  seen  nobody,  and  could 
not  know  what  she  would  like.  That  she  would 
do  anything  he  asked  her,  he  had  little  doubt;  she 
would  marry  him  if  he  asked  her;  but  Mr.  South- 
wode  did  not  want  a  wife  on  those  terms.  What 
should  he  do  with  her  ?  Yes,  he  knew  the  difficul- 
ties, much  better  than  she  knew  them ;  he  knew  how 
people  would  talk,  and  how  under  the  circumstances 
they  would  have  reason  to  talk;  which  Rotha  knew 
not.  All  which  troublesome  elements  of  the  rela- 
tion subsisting  between  them,  only  somehow  made 
Mr.  Southwode  hold  to  it  the  faster.  Probably  he 
was  by  nature  an  obstinate  man. 

Upon  the  pause  which  followed  the  end  of  her 
examination  came  a  question  of  Rotha. 

"  Are  you  going  to  stay  in  this  country  now,  Mr. 
Southwode  ?  " 

"  My  home  is  in  England,"  he  answered,  rousing 
himself  out  of  reverie. 

Rotha's  heart  sank  at  that;  sank  sadly.  Next 
came  a  recoil  of  her  reason — Yes,  you  had  better 
go  away,  if  I  cling  to  you  in  this  fashion ! 

"Why?"  was  his  next  counter  question.  "What 
makes  you  ask?" 

"I  did  not  know,"  said  Rotha.     "I  wanted  to 


PERPLEXITIES.  649 

know.  I  heard  people  say  you  would  live  over 
there." 

"What  else  have  you  heard  people  say  about 
me?" 

"  Not  much.  Aunt  Serena  never  spoke  of  you, 
I  think,  if  she  could  help  it.  I  have  only  heard 
somebody  say  that  you  were  very  rich — that  your 
home  would  be  over  there  now,  probably; — and 
that  you  would  concern  yourself  no  more  about 
me,"  Rotha  added,  in  the  instinct  of  truth. 

"Kind  judgment,"  said  Mr.  South wode;  "but  in 
this  case  not  true.  The  rest  is  true,  that  I  have  a 
large  property." 

He  went  on  to  tell  Rotha  several  things  about 
himself;  not  using  many  words,  at  the  same  time 
not  making  any  mystery  of  it.  He  told  her  that 
his  very  large  means  came  from  business ;  that  the 
business  was  in  hands  which  made  it  unnecessary 
that  he  should  give  to  the  oversight  of  it  more 
than  a  portion  of  his  time.  He  had  a,  home  in 
England,  and  he  described  it;  in  the  Lake  country, 
surrounded  with  beautiful  scenery.  He  was  very 
fond  of  it,  but  he  was  not  a  fixture  there ;  on  the 
contrary,  he  went  wherever  there  was  reason  for 
him  to  go,  or  work  to  be  done  by  his  going.  "  So 
I  am  here  now,  you  see."  he  concluded. 

And  so,  something  else  may  take  you  back  again, 
and  keep  you  there !  thought  Rotha ;  but  she  did 
not  say  what  she  thought,  nor  indeed  say  anything. 
Mr.  Southwode's  detail,  while  it  interested  her  ter- 
ribly, and  in  a  sort  nattered  her,  also  reduced  her 


650  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

to  a  very  low  feeling  of  downheartedness.  What 
was  she  to  him,  the  poor  little  American  orphan, 
to  the  rich  English  gentleman  ?  what  but  just  one 
of  his  various  and  probably  many  objects  of  benev- 
olence? What  more  could  she  be,  in  the  nature 
of  things?  No;  she  had  been  quite  right;  what 
she  had  to  do  was  to  equip  herself  as  speedly  as 
possible  for  the  battle  of  life,  and  dash  into  it  as  a 
teacher;  and  only  remember  as  a  kind  of  fairy  tale 
the  part  of  her  life  when  he  had  been  its  guardian 
and  protector.  Botha's  heart  swelled;  yet  she 
would  shew  nothing  of  that.  She  sat  still  and 
moveless;  too  still  and  unchanging,  in  fact,  foi 
the  supposition  that  her  thoughts  were  not  whirl- 
ing round  a  fixed  centre.  I  do  not  know  how 
much  of  this  Mr.  Southwode  read,  I  am  not  sure 
but  the  whirl  of  his  own  thoughts  occupied  him 
sufficiently.  However,  when  this  still  silence  had 
lasted  a  little  while,  he  broke  it  up  by  proposing 
to  take  Botha  a  drive.  "  You  used  to  like  it,"  he 
remarked.  Rotha  did  not  like  it  less  now.  She 
went  to  get  ready ;  thinking  to  herself  that  it  was 
maybe  the  very  last  time.  Why  had  she  come  to 
Tanfield  at  all  ?  and  why  had  Mr.  Southwode  sought 
her  out  there  ?  Better  if  she  could  have  remained 
as  she  was,  and  he  no  more  than  a  locked  up  treas- 
ure of  the  past  kept  in  her  memory. 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

DOWN  HILL. 

afternoon  was  on  the  wane  by  the  time 
1  they  set  out.  The  afternoon  of  a  fair  day  in 
October.  For  Rotha's  present  mood  it  was  almost 
too  fair.  The  country  around  Tanfield  is  level  for 
a  mile  or  two,  and  well  cultivated;  the  hues  of  the 
forest  at  the  change  of  tire  leaf  are  not  seen  here. 
Yet  October  was  not  left  without  witnesses.  Here 
and  there  a  warm  stubble  field  told  of  summer  gone 
and  harvests  gathered;  her  and  there  the  yellowing 
green  of  a  weeping  willow  proclaimed  that  autumn 
was  passing  away.  Hay  ricks  carefully  covered; 
wood  sheds  carefully  filled ;  now  and  then  a  plough 
upturning  the  rich  soil,  and  leaving  furrows  of 
ruddy  brown  creeping  over  the  field;  they  all  told 
the  time  of  year;  and  so  did  at  intervals  a  great 
maple  tree  in  its  livery  of  red  and  green,  or  a  hick- 
ory all  in  gold,  or  a  great  red  oak  in  its  dark  splen- 
dour. There  was  no  mistaking  October;  even 
without  the  genial,  gracious  sun  which  shed  over 
all  the  landscape  such  mellow  and  mellowing  rays. 
Mr.  Southwode  had  obtained  an  easy-going  pha- 
eton, with  a  pair  of  lively  ponies ;  and  through  this 
(651) 


652  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

level,  quiet,  rich,  farm  country  they  bowled  along 
smoothly  and  fast.  The  pleasure,  to  Eotha,  was  so 
keen  that  it  almost  took  on  the  semblance  of  pain. 
"This  once,"  she  was  saying  to  herself;  "and  if 
only  this  once,  then  why  this  once  ?  "  And  then 
she  chid  herself,  arid  bade  herself  enjoy  thoroughly 
and  thankfully  what  was  given  her.  She  tried, 
and  did  not  perfectly  succeed. 

Mr.  Southwode  was  silent  on  his  part,  more  than 
usual.  Certainly  his  reflections  were  in  no  sort  like 
Rotha's,  as  they  had  no  need;  yet  he  was  not  clear 
in  his  own  mind  as  to  the  best,  or  even  the  possi- 
ble, issues  of  things.  He  found  that  he  was  not  will- 
ing to  entertain  for  a  moment  Rotha's  proposition 
about  striking  off  from  Bis  protection  and  making 
a  livelihood  for  herself.  Yet  it  was  good  sense.  In 
fact,  what  else  could  be  done  ?  If  Mr.  Southwode 
had  had  a  mother,  and  so  a  home,  to  which  he 
could  have  introduced  her;  that  would  have  been 
simple  enough.  She  might  have  taken  the  place 
of  a  young  sister.  Failing  that,  what  plan  could  be 
substituted,  short  of  the  one  Mrs.  Purcell  had  rudely 
proposed  ?  He  had  110  idea  that  Rotha  was  ready 
for  that.  Yes,  undoubtedly  she  loved  him,  after 
another  fashion ;  he  was  her  childhood's  friend  and 
guardian  and  tutor;  and  as  a  child,  no  doubt,  she 
still  paid  him  reverence  and  affection.  Mr.  South- 
wode would  never  take  advantage  of  the  power 
this  fact  gave  him,  to  draw  Rotha  into  an  alli- 
ance which  her  free  mind  would  not  have  chosen. 
Some  men  would;  many  men  might;  it  did  not 


DOWN  HILL.  C53 

suit  him.  He  could  never  take  a  wife  on  such 
doubtful  terms.  He  was  not  clear  that  he  wanted 
her  on  any  terms.  Yet  oddly,  and  inconsistently, 
when  he  looked  at  the  fine,  honest,  thoughtful, 
sensitive  face  beside  him,  something  within  him 
said,  "I  shall  never  let  you  go."  It  was  very 
inconsistent.  How  he  was  to  keep  her,  he  could 
not  see.  He  did  not  look  at  her  often,  for  every 
look  perplexed  him.  And  Mr.  Southwode  was 
not  in  the  least  used  to  being  perplexed.  That 
perplexed  him.  Meanwhile  he  kept  his  horses 
well  in  hand  arid  drove  admirably.  Over  the  level 
roads,  through  the  still  air,  they  went  with  the 
steadiness  and  almost  the  swiftness,  of  a  locomo- 
tive. It  was  glorious  driving.  Eotha  caught  her 
breath  with  delight. 

At  this  rate  of  progress  however  the  small  ex- 
tent of  level  country  was  soon  passed  over.  They 
began  to  get  among  broken  ground  and  low  hills; 
hills  and  round  heights  covered  with  tufts  of  wood 
growth,  now  in  all  the  colours  of  the  gay  time  of 
year.  Hickories  all  gold,  ashes  in  sad  purple, 
bronzed  chestnut  oaks,  yellow  birches,  and  some- 
times sober  green  savins;  and  maples  in  abundance 
and  in  brilliant  variegation.  There  were  risings  and 
fallings  of  ground  now,  and  turning  of  angles; 
and  as  they  went  the  hills  grew  higher  and  set 
closer  upon  the  road,  and  the  road  was  often  too 
steep  for  the  pace  the  horses  had  hitherto  kept  up. 
Now  they  must  walk  up  a  hill,  and  sometimes  walk 
down  again. 


THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"Do  you  know  where  you  are,  Mr.  Digby?"  said 
Kotha,'one  of  these  times. 

"Not  perfectly." 

"  Is  not  that  a  very  favourable  statement  of  the 
case  ?  " 

"Let  us  take  an  observation,"  said  he,  pulling  up 
at  the  top  of  the  hill.  "  There  is  the  west,  by  the 
sun.  We  have  kept  our  backs  upon  Tanfield  gen- 
erally; it  must  lie  well  to  the  south,  and  a  little  to 
the  east  of  us.  I  am  going  to  take  the  first  turn- 
ing that  pi-omises  to  bring  us  round,  and  back  by 
another  road.  There  is  the  railway ! — do  you  see, 
yonder,  its  straight  level  line  ?  Now  I  know  where 
we  are.  That  is  the  Tanfield  railway,  running  on 
to  the  north.  We  must  come  about  and  meet  it, 
somewhere." 

The  coming  about,  however,  proved  to  be  a 
long  and  gradual  process.  The  first  turning  they 
took  did  not  lead  immediately  in  the  desired  direc- 
tion, only  as  it  were  inclined  towards  it;  the  sec- 
ond turning  was  not  more  satisfactory.  Mean- 
while they  got  deeper  among  the  hills;  the  ground 
was  more  and  more  rough;  farming  land  disap- 
peared; rocks  and  woodland  filled  the  eye,  look 
where  it  would;  the  roads  were  less  travelled  and 
by  no  means  smooth  going  any  longer.  Even  so, 
they  were  prettier;  the  changes  of  hill  and  val- 
ley, sudden  and  varied  as  they  were,  gave  interest 
to  every  foot  of  the  way.  All  this  took  time ;  but 
nobody  was  in  a  hurry.  Rotha  was  thinking  that 
perhaps  it  was  her  last  drive  with  Mr.  Southwode ; 


DOWN  HILL.  655 

and  Mr.  Southwode  was  thinking,  I  do  not  know 
what ;  nor  perhaps  did  he. 

The  point  was  found  at  last  where  they  could 
turn  their  faces  towards  Tanfield ;  they  were  sure 
of  their  way  when  they  reached  the  top  of  a  hill 
and  saw,  spread  out  before  them  for  many  a  square 
mile,  the  plain  country  in  which  the  town  stood, 
and  far  away  in  the  midst  of  it  could  discern  the 
glinting  of  the  light  upon  its  spires  and  houses. 
The  sun  was  very  low ;  its  level  rays  gave  an  ex- 
quisite illumination  to  the  whole  scene,  lighting  ev- 
ery rise  of  ground  and  every  tuft  of  woodland,  and 
even  coming  back  from  scattered  single  trees  with 
beautiful  defining  effect.  Mr.  Southwode  drew  up 
his  horses;  and  for  a  few  minutes  he  and  Rotha 
fed  their  eyes  with  what  was  before  them.  The 
sun  was  just  kissing  the  horizon. 

"That  is  worth  coming  all  the  way  for!"  he 
said. 

"  And  we  shall  not  have  it  but  just  half  a  minute 
longer,"  said  Rotha.  "There — the  light  is  going 
now.  0  what  a  sight  it  is ! — There !  now  it  is  all 
gone.  How  far  are  we  from  home,  do  you  sup- 
pose ?  " 

"By  the  roads,  I  do  not  know;  but  once  at  the 
bottom  of  this  hill  we  shall  have  nothing  but  level 
travelling,  and  the  horses  go  pretty  well." 

"Pretty  well ! "  said  Rotha  laughing.  "  I  am 
wondering  then  what  you  would  call  very  well? 
We  have  got  to  cross  the  railway,  Mr.  Southwode. 
It  runs  by  the  foot  of  the  hill." 


656  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  There  is  no  train  near,"  he  answered  as  he  put 
his  horses  in  motion. 

They  went  slowly  down  the  hill,  which  was  rough 
and  steep.  The  horses  behaved  well,  setting  down 
their  feet  carefully,  and  holding  back  the  carnage 
with  the  instinct  or  training  which  seems  to  be 
aware  what  would  be  the  consequence  of  letting 
themselves  and  it  go.  But  then  happened  one  of 
those  things  against  which  instinct  is  no  protec- 
tion and  training  cannot  provide.  Just  as  a  sharp 
turn  in  the  road  was  reached,  from  which  it  went 
on  turning  round  a  shoulder  of  the  hill  till  it 
reached  the  lower  ground,  this  thing  happened. 
It  was  the  worst  possible  place  for  an  accident; 
the  descent  was  steep  and  rough  and  winding,  the 
road  disappearing  from  view  behind  the  turn ;  and 
crossed  evidently,  just  a  little  further  below,  by  the 
railway  track.  The  horses  at  this  point  came  to  a 
sudden  stop.  Mr.  South wode  alone  saw  why.  Some 
buckle  or  pin  or  strap,  which  had  to  do  with  the  se- 
cure holding  of  the  end  of  the  carriage  pole  to  the 
harness,  was  broken  or  had  given  way,  and  the  pole 
had  fallen  to  the  ground.  The  horses  had  made  an 
astonished  pause,  but  he  knew  this  pause  would  be 
followed  the  next  instant  by  a  mad  headlong  rush 
cloWn  the  hill  and  a  swallowing  of  the  plain  with 
their  hoofs,  if  they  ever  reached  it;  which  was  in 
u  high  degree  unlikely  for  them  and  impossible  for 
the  carriage.  Rotha  only  knew  that  the  horses 
quietly  stopped,  and  that  Mr.  Southwode  said 
quietly, 


DOWN  HILL.  657 

"Jump,  Botha!" 

Yes,  he  said  it  quietly;  and  yet  there  was  some- 
thing in  tone  or  accent  which  left  no  room  for 
disobedience  or  even  hesitation.  That  something 
was  very  much  the  matter,  Rotha  at  once  knew; 
and  if  there  was  danger  she  did  not  at  all  wish  to 
get  out  of  it  and  leave  him  to  face  it  alone.  She 
would  rather  have  sat  still  and  taken  what  came, 
so  she  took  it  with  him.  Moreover  she  had  always 
been  told  that  in  case  of  a  runaway  the  last  thing 
to  be  done  is  to  try  to  get  out  of  the  carriage.  All 
this  was  full  in  her  mind;  and  yet  when  Mr.  South- 
wode  said  "Jump,"  she  knew  she-  must  mind  him. 
He  offered  her  no  help;  but  light  and  active  as  she 
was  she  did  not  need  it;  a  step  on  the  wheel  and 
a  spring  to  the  ground,  and  she  was  safe.  Just  for 
that  instant  the  horses  stood  still;  then  followed 
what  their  driver  had  known  would  follow.  Al- 
most as  Rotha's  foot  touched  the  ground  they 
dashed  forward,  and  with  one  confused  rush  and 
whirl  she  saw  them,  phaeton  and  all,  disappear 
round  the  turn  of  the  hill. 

And  there  was  the  railway  track  to  cross !  Ro- 
tha stood  still,  feeling  stunned  and  sick.  It  was 
all  so  sudden.  One  minute  in  happy  safety  and 
quiet,  beside  the  person  she  liked  best  in  the  world ; 
only  the  next  minute  alone  and  desolate,  with  the 
sight  of  him  before  her  eyes  hurled  to  danger  and 
probable  death.  Danger?  how  could  anything  live 
to  get  to  the  bottom  of  that  hill  at  the  rate  the 
horses  took  ? 


658  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Of  the  fallen  carnage  pole  Rotha  knew  nothing, 
and  needed  not  that  to  be  assured  that  the  chance 
of  her  ever  hearing  Mr.  Southwode  speak  again 
was  a  very,  very  slender  one.  She  did  not  think; 
she  merely  knew  all  this,  with  a  dumb,  blank  con- 
sciousness; she  stood  still,  mechanically  pressing 
her  hands  upon  her  heart.  The  noise  of  the  horses' 
hoofs  and  the  rushing  wheels  had  been  swallowed 
up  by  the  intervening  hill,  and  the  stillness  was 
simply  mocking  in  its  tranquil  peacefulness.  The 
sunlight  at  the  glory  of  which  they  had  both  been 
looking,  had  hardly  died  aAvay  from  the  landscape ; 
and  one  of  them,  most  likely,  was  beyond  seeing 
the  light  of  earth  ibrevermore.  Rotha  stood  as 
still  as  death  herself,  listening  for  a  sound  that 
came  not,  and  gradually  growing  white  and  whiter. 
Yet  she  never  was  in  any  danger  of  fainting;  no 
sealing  of  her  senses  served  as  a  release  to  her 
pain;  in  full,  clear  consciousness  she  stood  there, 
and  heard  the  silence  and  saw  the  sweet  fall  of  the 
evening  light  upon  the  plain.  Only  stunned ;  with 
a  consciousness  that  was  but  partially  alive  to  suf- 
fering. I  suppose  the  mind  cannot  fully  take  in 
such  a  change  at  once.  She  was  so  stunned,  that 
several  minutes  passed  before  she  could  act,  or 
move;  and  it  seemed  that  the  silence  and  peace 
had  long  been  reigning  over  hill  and  plain,  when 
she  roused  herself  to  go  down  the  road. 

She  went  then  with  dreadful  haste,  yet  so  trem- 
bling that  she  could  not  go  as  fast  as  she  would. 
The  horror  of  what  might  be  at  the  bottom  of  the 


DOWN  HILL.  659 

hill  might  have  kept  her  for  ever  upon  it ;  but  the 
need  to  know  was  greater  still;  and  so  with  an 
awful  fear  of  what  every  step  might  bring  her  to, 
she  sped  down  the  hill.  She  heard  no  noise;  she 
saw  no  wreck;  following  the  winding  of  the  road, 
which  wound  fearfully  down  such  a  steep,  she  came 
to  the  railway  crossing  and  passed  it,  and  followed 
on  still  further  down;  the  curve  of  the  road  always 
hiding  from  her  what  might  be  beyond.  Her  feet 
got  wings  at  last;  she  was  shaking  in  every  joint, 
yet  fairly  flew  along,  being  unable  to  endure  the 
fear  and  uncertainty.  No  trace  of  any  disaster  met 
her  eyes ;  no  call  for  help  or  cry  to  the  horses  came 
to  her  ears ;  what  did  the  silence  portend  ? 

Just  at  the  bottom  the  road  made  another  sharp 
turn  around  a  clump  of  woodland.  Rounding  this 
turn,  Rotha  came  suddenly  upon  what  she  sought. 
The  first  glance  shewed  her  that  Mr.  Southwode 
was  upon  his  feet ;  the  second  that  the  horses  were 
standing  still.  Rotha  hardly  saw  anything  more. 
She  made  her  way,  still  running,  till  she  got  to 
Mr.  South wode's  side,  and  there  stopped  and  looked 
at  him;  with  white  lips  apart  and  eyes  that  put  an 
intense  question.  For  though  she  saw  him  stand- 
ing and  apparently  well  able  to  stand,  the  passion 
of  fear  could  not  so  immediately  be  driven  out  by 
the  evidence  of  one  sense  alone.  He  met  the 
urgency  of  her  eyes  and  smiled. 

"  I  am  all  right,"  he  said. 

"Not  hurt?" 

"  Not  in  the  least." 


660  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Looking  at  her  still,  for  her  face  had  startled  him, 
he  saw  a  change  come  over  it  which  was  beyond 
the  demands  of  mere  friendly  solicitude,  even  when 
very  warm.  He  saw  the  flash  of  intense  joy  in  her 
eyes,  and  what  was  yet  more,  a  quiver  in  the  un- 
bent lovely  lines  about  the  mouth.  One  does  not 
stop  to  reason  out  conclusions  at  such  a  time.  Mr. 
Southwode  was  still  holding  the  reins  of  the  pant- 
ing horses,  the  carriage  was  a  wreck  a  few  yards 
off,  they  were  miles  away  from  home ;  he  forgot  it 
all,  and  acting  upon  one  of  those  subtle  instincts 
which  give  no  account  of  themselves,  he  laid  one 
arm  lightly  around  Rotha  and  bent  down  and 
kissed  the  unsteady  lips. 

A  sudden  flood  of  scarlet,  so  intense  that  it  was 
almost  pain,  shot  over  Botha's  face,  and  her  eyes 
drooped  and  failed  utterly  to  meet  his.  She  had 
been  very  near  bursting  into  tears,  woman's  natu- 
ral relief  from  overstrained  nerves;  but  his  kiss 
turned  the  current  of  feeling  into  another  channel, 
and  the  sting  of  delight  and  pain  was  met  by  an 
overwhelming  consciousness.  Had  she  betrayed 
herself?  What  made  him  do  that?  It  was  good 
for  Rotha  just  then  that  she  was  no  practised  wo- 
man of  the  world,  not  skilled  in  any  manner  of 
evasion  or  trick  of  deceptive  art.  If  she  had  been ; 
if  she  had  answered  his  demonstration  with  a  little 
cold,  careless  laugh,  and  turned  it  off  with  a  word 
of  derision ;  as  I  suppose  she  would  if  she  had  not 
been  so  utterly  true  and  honest,  according  to  a 
woman's  terrible  instinct  of  self-preservation,  01 


DOWN  HILL.  661 

preservation  of  her  secret ;  he  would  have  thought 
as  he  had  thought  before — she  loves  me  as  a  child 
does.  But  the  extreme  confusion,  and  the  lovely 
abasement  of  the  lowered  brow,  went  to  his  heart 
with  their  unmistakeable  revelation.  Instead  of 
releasing  her,  he  put  both  arms  round  her  now  and 
gently  drew  her  up  to  him.  But  Rotha  was  by  no 
means  so  clear  in  her  mind  as  by  this  time  he  was. 
She  did  not  understand  his  action,  and  so  misin- 
terpreted it.  She  made  a  brave  effort  to  relieve  him 
from  what  she  thought  overwrought  gratitude. 

"That  is  nothing  to  thank  me  for,  Mr.  South- 
wode,"  she  said.  "Any  friend  would  have  been 
anxious,  in  my  place." 

"  True.  Were  you  anxious  simply  as  a  friend, 
Rotha?" 

Rotha  hesitated,  and  the  hesitation  lasted  till  it 
amounted  to  an  eloquent  answer;  and  the  arms 
that  held  her  drew  her  a  little  closer. 

"But  I  do  not  iinderstand — "  she  managed  to 
say. 

"  Do  you  not  ?  I  do.  I  think  I  can  make  you 
understand  too." 

But  his  explanations  were  wordless,  and  if  con- 
vincing were  exceedingly  confusing  to  Rotha. 

"  But  Mr.  South wode ! — what  do  you  mean  ?  "  she 
managed  at  last  to  say,  trying  to  release  herself. 

"  I  mean,  that  you  belong  to  me,  and  I  belong 
to  you,  for  the  rest  of  our  lives.  That  is  what 
I  mean." 

"Are  you  sure?" 


662  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Yes,"  said  he  with  a  low  laugh ;  "  and  so  are 
you.  When  you  and  I  mean  a  thing,  we  mean  it." 

Rotha  wondered  that  he  could  mean  it,  and  she 
wondered  how  he  could  know  that  she  meant  it. 
Had  she  somehow  betrayed  herself?  and  how? 
She  felt  very  humble,  and  very  proud  at  the  same 
time;  in  one  way  esteeming  at  its  full  value  the 
woman's  heart  and  life  she  had  to  give,  as  every 
woman  should;  in  another  way  thinking  it  not 
half  good  enough.  Shamefaced,  because  her  secret 
was  found  out,  yet  too  honest  and  noble  of  nature 
to  attempt  any  poor  effort  at  deceit,  she  stood  with 
lights  and  shadows  flying  over  her  face  in  a  lovely 
and  most  womanly  manner;  yet  mostly  lights,  of 
shy  modesty  and  half  veiled  gladness  and  humble 
content.  Fifty  things  came  to  her  lips  to  say,  and 
she  could  speak  none  of  them ;  and  she  began  to 
wish  the  silence  would  be  broken. 

"  How  did  you  know,  Mr.  Southwode  ? "  she 
burst  forth  at  last,  that  question  pressing  too  hard 
to  be  satisfied. 

"  Know  what  ?  "  said  he. 

"  I  mean — you  know  what  I  mean !  I  mean, — 
now  came  you — what  made  you — speak  as  you 
did  ?  I  mean !  ilmt  isn't  it.  I  mean,  what  justifi- 
cation did  you  think  you  had? " 

Mr.  Southwode  laughed  his  low  laugh  again. 

"Do  I  need  justification?" 

"  Yes,  for  jumping  at  conclusions." 

"  That  is  the  way  they  say  women  always  do." 

"  Not  in  such  thins-* !  " 


DOWN  HILL.  663 

"  Perhaps  not.  Certainly  you  have  not  done  it 
in  this  case." 

"  How  came  you  to  do  it?  Please  answer  me  ! 
Mr.  Southwode,  are  you  sure  you  know  what  you 
mean  ?  You  did  not  think  of  any  such  thing  when 
we  set  out  upon  our  drive  this  afternoon  ?  "  Kotha 
spoke  with  great  and  painful  difficulty,  but  she  felt 
she  must  speak. 

"  I  had  thought  of  it.  But  Rotha,  I  was  not  sure 
of  you." 

"  In  what  way  ?  " 

"I  knew  you  cared  for  me,  a  good  deal;  but  I 
fancied  it  was  merely  a  child's  devotion,  which 
would  vanish  fast  away  as  soon  as  the  right  claim 
was  made  to  your  heart." 

"  And  why  do  you  not  think  so  still  ?  "  said  Ro- 
tha, the  flames  of  consciousness  flashing  up  to  her 
very  brow.  But  Mr.  Southwode  only  laughed 
softly  and  kissed,  both  lips  and  brow,  tenderly  and 
reverently,  if  very  assuredly. 

"  I  have  not  done  anything — "  said  Rotha,  trem- 
bling and  a  little  distressed. 

"Nothing,  but  to  be  true  and  pure  and  natural; 
and  so  has  come  the  answer  to  my  question,  which 
I  might  not  have  ventured  to  ask.  Mrs.  Purcell 
asked  me  to-day  whether  I  was  going  to  marry 
you,  and  I  said  no ;  for  I  never  could  have  let  you 
marry  me  with  a  child's  transient  passion  and  find 
out  afterwards  that  your  woman's  heart  was  not 
given  me.  But  now  I  will  correct  my  answer  to 
Mrs.  Purcell,  if  I  have  opportunity." 


664  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  But,"  said  Rotha  hesitating, — "  I  think  in  one 
thing  you  are  mistaken.  I  do  not  think  my  feel- 
ing has  really  changed,  since  long  ago." 

"  Did  you  give  me  your  woman's  heart  then  ?  " 

"You  think  I  had  it  not  to  give;  but  I  think,  I 
gave  you  all  I  had.  And  though  I  have  changed, 
that  has  not  changed." 

"  I  take  it,"  he  said.  "  And  what  I  have  to  give 
you,  I  will  let  my  life  tell  you.  Now  we  must  try 
to  get  home." 

Released  from  the  arm  that  had  held  her  all  this 
•while,  Rotha  for  the  first  time  surveyed  the  ground. 
There  were  the  horses,  standing  quietly  enough 
after  their  mad  rush  down  the  hill;  panting  yet, 
and  feeling  nervous,  as  might  be  seen  by  the  move- 
ment of  ears  and  air  of  head.  And  a  few  rods  be- 
hind lay  what  had  been  the  phaeton ;  now  a  thor- 
ough and  utter  wreck. 

"  How  did  it  happen  ? "  exclaimed  Rotha,  in  a 
sudden  spasm  of  dread  catching  hold  of  Mr.  South- 
wode's  arm.  He  told  her  what  had  been  the  be- 
ginning of  the  trouble. 

"What  carelessness!  But  how  have  you  es- 
caped ?  And  how  came  the  carriage  to  be  such  a 
smash  ?  " 

"  I  knew  what  was  before  me,  when  on  the  hill 
the  horses  made  that  sudden  pause  and  I  saw  the 
pole  on  the  ground.  I  knew  they  would  be  still 
only  that  one  instant.  Then  I  told  you  to  jump. 
You  behaved  very  well." 

"I  did  nothing,"  said  Rotha.     "The  tone  of  your 


DOWN  HILL.  665 

voice,  when  you  said  '  Jump ! '  was  something,  or 
had  something  in  it,  which  I  could  not  possibly 
disobey.  I  did  not  want  to  jump,  at  all;  but  I  had 
no  choice.  Then  ? — " 

"  Then  followed  what  I  knew  must  come.  You 
saw  how  we  went  down  .the  hill ;  but  happily  the 
road  turned  and  you  could  not  see  us  long.  I  do 
not  know  how  we  went  scathless  so  far  as  we  did; 
but  at  last  the  end  of  the  pole  of  the  phaeton 
lodged  against  some  obstacle  in  the  road,  stuck 
fast,  and  the  carriage  simply  turned  a  somersault 
over  it,  throwing  me  out  into  safety,  and  itself 
getting  presently  broken  almost  to  shivers." 

"Throwing  you  out  into  safety!"  Rotha  ex- 
claimed, turning  pale. 

"Don't  I  look  safe?"  said  he  smiling. 

"And  you  are  as  cool  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened." 

"  Am  I  ?  On  the  contrary,  I  feel  very  warm 
about  the  region  of  my  heart,  and  as  if  a  good  deal 
had  happened.  Now  Rotha,  we  have  got  to  walk 
home.  How  many  miles  it  is,  I  do  not  know." 

"  And  I  do  not  care  !  "  said  Rotha.  "  But  how 
came  you  to  keep  hold  of  the  reins  all  the  time  ? 
Or  did  you  catch  them  afterwards  ?  " 

"  No,  I  held  on  to  them.  It  was  the  only  way  to 
save  the  horses." 

"  But  they  were  running !     How  could  you  ?  " 

"I  do  not  know;  only  what  has  to  be  done,  gen- 
erally can  be  done.  We  will  take  the  rest  of  the 
way  gently." 


666  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

But  I  am  not  sure  that  they  did;  and  I  am  sure 
that  they  did  not  much  think  how  they  took  it. 
Rather  briskly,  I  fancy,  following  the  horses,  which 
were  restless  yet;  and  with  a  certain  apprehension 
that  there  was  a  long  way  to  go.  On  the  roads 
they  had  travelled  at  first  coming  out  there  had 
been  frequently  a  farmhouse  to  be  seen ;  now  they 
oame  to  none.  The  road  was  solitary,  stretching 
away  between  tracts  of  rocky  and  stony  soil,  left 
to  its  natural  condition,  and  with  patches  of  wood. 
But  what  a  walk  that  was  after  all!  The  mild, 
mellow  October  light  beautified  even  the  barren 
spots  of  earth,  and  made  the  woodland  tufts  of 
foliage  into  clusters  of  beauty.  As  the  light  faded, 
the  hues  of  things  grew  softer ;  a  spicier  fragrance 
came  from  leaf  and  stem;  the  gently  gathering 
dusk  seemed  to  fold  the  two  who  were  walking 
through  it  into  a  more  reserved  world  of  their  own. 
And  then,  above  in  the  dark  bright  sky  lights 
began  to  look  forth,  so  quiet,  so  peaceful,  as  if  they 
were  blinking  their  sympathy  with  the  wanderers. 
These  did  not  talk  very  much,  and  about  nothing 
but  trifling  matters  by  the  way;  yet  it  came  over 
Botha's  mind  that  perhaps  in  all  future  time  she 
would  never  have  a  pleasanter  walk  than  this. 
Could  life  have  anything  better  ?  And  she  might 
have  been  right,  if  she  had  been  like  many,  who 
know  nothing  more  precious  than  the  earthly  love 
which  for  her  was  just  in  its  blossoming  time. 
But  she  was  wrong;  for  to  people  given  over,  as 
these  two  were,  to  the  service  of  Christ,  the  joys 


DOWN  HILL.  667 

of  life  are  on  an  ascending  scale ;  experience  brings 
more  than  time  takes  away;  affection,  having  a 
joint  object  beyond  and  above  each  other,  does 
never  grow  weary  or  stale,  and  never  knows  dis- 
appointment or  satiety;  and  the  work  of  life  brings 
in  delicious  fruits  as  they  go,  and  the  light  of 
heaven  shines  brighter  and  brighter  upon  their 
footsteps.  It  can  be  only  owing  to  their  own  fault, 
if  to-morrow  is  not  steadily  better  than  to-day. 

But  from  what  I  have  said  it  will  appear  that 
Rotha  was  presently  in  a  contented  state  of  mind ; 
and  she  went  revolving  all  sorts  of  things  in  her 
thoughts  as  she  walked,  laying  up  stores  of  mate- 
rial for  future  conversations,  which  however  she 
was  glad  Mr.  Southwode  did  not  begin  now. 

As  for  Mr.  Southwode,  he  minded  his  horses, 
and  also  minded  her;  but  if  he  spoke  at  all  it  was 
merely  to  remark  on  some  rough  bit  of  ground, 
or  some  wonderful  bit  of  colour  in  the  evening 
sky. 

"  Well,  hollo,  mister ! "  cried  a  hotel  hostler  as 
they  approached  near  enough  to  have  the  manner 
of  their  travelling  discernible, — "what  ha'  you 
done  wi'  your  waggin  ?  " 

"  I  was  unable  to  do  anything  with  it." 

"  Where  is  it  then  ?" 

"  About  five  miles  off,  I  judge,  lying  at  the  foot 
of  a  hill." 

"  Spilled,  hey  ?  " 

"  It  will  never  hold  anything  again." 

"What's  that?  what's  this?"  cried  the  landlord 


668  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

now,  issuing  from  the  lower  door  of  the  house; 
"  what's  wrong  here,  sir  ?  " 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  Mr.  Southwode;  "but 
there  has  been  carelessness  somewhere.  Either 
the  hostler  did  his  work  with  his  eyes  shut,  or 
the  leather  of  the  harness  gave  way,  or  the  iron 
work  of  something.  The  pole  fell,  as  we  were 
going  down  a  steep  hill;  of  course  the  phaeton 
is  a  wreck.  I  could  only  save  the  horses." 

The  landlord  was  in  a  great  fume. 

"  Sir,  sir,"  he  stammered  and  blustered, — "  this  is 
your  account  of  it." 

"  Precisely,"  said  Mr.  Southwode.  "  That  is  my 
account  of  it." 

"  How  in  thunder  did  it  happen  ?  It  was  bad 
driving,  I  expect." 

"  It  was  nothing  of  the  kind.  It  was  a  steep 
hill,  a  dropped  carriage  pole,  and  a  run.  You 
could  not  expect  the  horses  not  to  run.  And  of 
course  the  carriage  went  to  pieces." 

"  Who  was  in  it  ?  " 

"  I  was  in  it.  The  lady  jumped  out,  just  before 
the  run  began." 

"  Didn't  you  know  enough  to  jump  too  ?  " 

"  I  knew  enough  not  to  jump,"  said  Mr.  South- 
wode, laughing  a  little.  "  By  that  means  I  saved 
your  horses." 

"  And  I  expect  you  want  me  to  take  that  as  pay 
for  the  carriage !  and  take  your  story  too.  But  it 
was  at  your  risk,  sir — at  your  risk.  When  I  sends 
out  a  team,  without  I  sends  a  man  with  it,  it's  at 


DOWN  HILL.  669 

the  driver's  risk,  whoever  he  is.  I  expect  you  to 
make  it  good,  sir.  I  can't  afford  no  otherwise. 
The  phaeton  was  in  good  order  when  it  went  out 
o'  this  yard;  and  I  expect  you  to  bring  it  back  in 
good  order,  or  stand  the  loss.  My  business  wouldn't 
keep  me,  sir,  on  no  other  principles.  You  must 
make  the  damage  good,  if  you're  a  gentleman  or 
no  gentleman." 

"Take  the  best  supposition,  and  let  me  have 
supper.  If  you  will  make  that  good,  Mr.  Landlord, 
you  may  add  the  phaeton  to  my  bill." 

"  You'll  pay  it,  I  s'pose  ? "  cried  the  anxious 
landlord,  as  his  guest  turned  away. 

"  I  always  pay  my  bills,"  said  Mr.  Southwode, 
mounting  the  steps  to  the  piazza.  "NowRotha, 
come  and  have  something  to  eat." 

Supper  was  long  since  over  for  the  family;  the 
two  had  the  great  dining  hall  to  themselves.  It 
was  the  room  in  which  Rotha  had  taken  her  soli- 
tary breakfast  the  morning  of  her  arrival.  Now  as 
she  and  her  companion  took  their  seats  at  one  of 
the  small  tables,  it  seemed  to  the  girl  that  she  had 
got  into  an  enchanted  country.  Aladdin's  vaults 
of  jewels  were  not  a  pleasanter  place  in  his  eyes, 
than  this  room  to  her  to-night.  And  she.  had  not 
to  take  care  even  of  her  supper ;  care  of  every  sort 
was  gone.  One  thing  however  was  on  Rotha's 
mind. 

"Mr.  Southwode,"  she  said  as  soon  as  they  had 
placed  themselves, — "it  was  not  your  fault,  all  that 
about  the  phaeton." 


670  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"No." 

"  Then  you  ought  not  to  pay  for  it." 

"  It  would  be  more  loss  to  this  poor  man,  than  to 
me,  Kotha,  I  fancy." 

"  Yes,  but  right  is  right.  Making  a  present  is 
one  thing ;  paying  an  unjust  charge  is  another.  It 
is  allowing  that  you  were  to  blame." 

"  I  do  not  know  that  it  is  unjust.  And  peace  is 
worth  paying  for,  if  the  phaeton  is  not." 

"  How  much  do  you  suppose  it  will  be  ?  " 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  said  laughing  a  little. 
"  Are  you  anxious,  about  it  ?  " 

Rotha  coloured  up  brightly.  "  It  seems  like  al- 
lowing that  you  were  in  the  wrong,"  she  said. 
"And  the  man  was  very  impertinent." 

"I  recognize  your  old  fierce  logic  of  justice. 
Haven't  you  learned  yet  that  one  must  give  and 
take  a  good  deal  in  this  world,  to  get  along 
smoothly?  No  charge  the  man  can  ever  make 
will  equal  what  the  broken  phaeton  is  worth  to 
me,  Rotha." 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

DISCUSSIONS. 

THE  sitting  room,  when  they  came  to  it  after 
supper,  looked  as  pleasant  as  a  hotel  sitting 
room  could.  It  was  but  a  bare  apartment,  after 
the  fashion  of  country  hotels ;  however  it  was  filled 
with  the  blaze  of  a  good  fire,  and  that  gives  a 
glimmer  of  comfort  anywhere.  Moreover  it  was  a 
private  room ;  they  had  it  to  themselves.  Now 
what  next?  thought  Rotha. 

Mr.  Southwode  put  a  chair  for  her,  gave  a  little 
dressing  to  the  fire,  and  then  stood  by  the  mantel- 
piece with  his  back  towards  it,  so  that  his  face  was 
in  shadow.  Probably  he  was  considering  Rotha's 
face,  into  which  the  fire  shone  full.  For  it  was  a 
pleasant  thing  to  look  at,  with  its  brightness  just 
now  softened  by  a  lovely  veil  of  modesty,  and  a 
certain  nnmistakeable  blessedness  of  content  lurk- 
ing in  the  corners  of  the  mouth  and  the  lines  of 
the  brow.  It  met  all  the  requirements  of  a  fastidi- 
ous man.  There  was  sense,  dignity,  refinement, 
sensitiveness,  and  frankness;  and  the  gazer  almost 
forgot  what  he  wanted  to  do,  in  the  pleasure  of 
looking.  Rotha  had  time  to  wonder  more  than 
once  "  what  next  ?  " 
(671) 


672  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  It  seems  to  me  we  have  a  great  deal  to  talk 
about,  Rotha,"  Mr.  South wode  said  at  last.  "  And 
not  much  time.  What  comes  first?  " 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Rotha,  "  the  first  thing  is,  that 
I  must  go  back  to  school." 

"  I  suppose  you  must !  "  he  said.  There  was  an 
accent  about  it  that  made  Rotha  laugh. 

"  Why  I  must  of  course  ! ''  she  said.  "  I  do  not 
know  anything; — only  the  beginnings  of  things." 

"  Yes,"  repeated  Mr.  South  wode,  "  for  a  year  you 
must  go,  I  suppose.  For  a  year. —  After  that,  I 
will  not  wait  any  longer.  You  shall  do  the  rest 
of  your  studying  with  me." 

"You  know  I  like  that  best  of  all — "  she  said 
softly. 

"  Perhaps  I  will  take  you  to  Germany." 

"  Germany !  "— 

"It  is  a  good  place  to  study  German.  Or  to 
study  anything." 

"Must  one  go  to  France  too,  to  study  French?" 
Rotha  asked  with  a  nervous  laugh. 

"  We  must  not  be  too  long  away  from  home. 
But  a  year — or  till  next  summer ;  school  terms  end 
in  summer,  do  they  not  ?  " 

"In  June." 

"  So,  for  a  year,  or  for  eight  months,  I  shall 
hardly  see  you.  We  must  do  a  great  deal  of  talk- 
ing to-night." 

"Where  will  you  be,  Mr.  Digby?"  Rotha  asked 
timidly,  as  he  took  a  chair  beside  her. 

"Not  far  off;  but  for  this  interval  I  shall  choose 


DISCUSSIONS.  673 

to  play  the  part  of  guardian,  rather  than  that  of 
lover,  before  the  eyes  of  the  world." 

"  0  yes,  indeed !  "  said  Rotha  earnestly.  "  For 
every  reason." 

"  All  the  more,  I  am  not  going  to  play  the  part 
of  guardian  to-night.  Rotha  I  think  noiv,  it  would 
be  as  well  to  return  to  Mrs.  Mowbray  for  these  eight 
months.  Would  you  like  that  ?  " 

"01  shall  like  it  very  much !  if  you  like  it." 

"  Things  are  changed,  since  we  .talked  about  it 
this  afternoon." 

"  Yes ! — "  said  Rotha  breathless.  And  there  was 
something  she  wanted  to  say,  but  at  that  minute 
she  could  not  say  it.  For  that  minute  she  could 
not  disturb  the  sweetness  of  things  as  they  were. 
Scruples  must  wait.  Mr.  Southwode  saw  that  she 
was  a  little  disturbed,  shy  and  nervous,  albeit  there 
was  no  doubt  that  she  was  very  happy.  He 
stretched  out  his  hand  and  took  hers,  holding  it 
in  a  fast  steady  clasp ;  as  if  to  assure  her  of  some- 
thing tangible  and  real  in  her  new  happiness. 
"Now,"  said  he,  "tell  me  about  yourself— about 
all  these  years." 

"  I  did  tell  you,  in  part." 

"  Yes.  Tell  me  the  other  part.  I  want  to  have 
the  whole  now." 

"It  would  just — annoy  you,  I  am  afraid." 

"  What  sort  of  a  home  did  you  have  with  your 
aunt  ? " 

"  Not  pleasant.  That  was  partly  my  own  fault. 
I  was  not  patient  and  gentle  and  quiet — as  you 


674  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

told  me  to  be.  I  got  into  a  kind  of  a  fury,  at 
things  and  at  her." 

"What  did  she  do?" 

And  then  Kotha  told  him  the  whole  story,  not 
sparing  herself  at  all  by  the  way;  till  he  knew 
pretty  well  what  her  life  had  been  these  three 
years,  and  what  part  Mrs.  Mowbray  and  what  part 
Mrs.  Busby  had  played  in  it.  Only  one  thing  Ro- 
tha did  not  tell  him;  the  episode  of  the  stockings. 
He  listened  in  absolute  silence,  save  that  now  and 
then  he  helped  her  on  with  a  question ;  holding  her 
hand  firmly  all  the  while.  And  Rotha  felt  the 
clasp  and  knew  what  it  meant,  and  poured  out  her 
heart.  After  she  had  done,  he  was  still  silent  a 
minute. 

"  What  shall  we  do  to  Mrs.  Mowbray !  "  he  broke 
out. 

"You  cannot  do  anything  to  her,"  said  Rotha. 
"  Thanks  are  nothing;  and  there  is  no  way  of  doing 
the  least  thing  beside; — unless  she  could  be  very 
ill  and  left  to  my  care;  and  I  do  not  wish  that." 

"•  Perhaps  she  will  give  up  schooling  some  day ; 
and  we  will  coax  her  over  to  England  and  make 
her  live  with  us." 

Rotha  started  and  turned  upon  the  speaker  one 
of  her  brilliant  looks.  A  sort  of  delight  at  the 
thought,  and  admiration  of  his  thought,  with  a 
flush  of  intense  affection  which  regarded  at  least 
two  people,  made  her  face  like  a  cluster  of  diamonds. 
Mr.  South wode  smiled,  and  then  began  to  talk  about 
that  home  to  which  he  had  alluded.  He  described 


DISCUSSIONS.  675 

it  to  Rotha;  sketched  the  plan  of  the  house  for  her; 
told  her  about  the  people  of  the  surrounding  coun- 
try. The  house  was  not  magnificent  or  stately,  he 
said;  but  large,  comfortable,  old,  and  rather  pic- 
turesque in  appearance;  standing  in  the  midst  of 
extensive  and  very  lovely  grounds,  where  art  had 
not  interfered  with  nature.  He  told  Rotha  he 
thought  she  would  like  it. 

Rotha's  eyes  fell;  she  made  no  answer,  but  was 
he  thought  very  grave.  He  went  on  to  tell  her 
about  himself  arid  his  business.  He,  and  his  father 
arid  grandfather  before  him,  had  been  owners  of  a 
large  manufacturing  establishment,  the  buildings  of 
which  made  almost  a  village  some  three  miles  from 
the  house,  and  the  workmen  in  which  were  very 
many. 

"  Isn't  that  troublesome  often  ? "  Rotha  asked, 
forgetting  herself  now. 

"  No.     Why  should  it  be  troublesome  ?  " 

"  I  read  in  the  papers  so  much  about  strikes,  and 
disagreements  between  masters  and  workmen  in 
this  country." 

"  We  never  had  a  strike,  and  we  never  have 
disagreements." 

"That  is  nice;  but  how  do  you  manage?  I  sup- 
pose I  can  guess!  They  all  do  what  you  tell 
them." 

"  I  do  not  tell  them  anything  unreasonable." 

"  Still,  ignorant  people  do  not  always  know  what 
is  reasonable." 

"  That  is  true.     And  it  is  rather  the  Golden  Rule 


676  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

we  go  by,  than  the  might  of  Eeason  or  the  reign 
of  Law." 

"  How  do  you  manage,  Mr.  Digby  ?  " 

"I  am  not  to  be  Mr.  Digby  always,  I  hope?" 

"This  year — "  murmured  Rotha." 

"This  year !  I  do  not  mean  to  ask  anything  un- 
reasonable of  you  either;  but  I  would  like  you 
to  remember  that  things  are  changed,"  he  said, 
amused. 

"Yes,  I  will,"  said  Rotha  confusedly — "I  will 
remember;  I  do  remember,  but  now  please  tell  me 
about  your  factory  people." 

"  What  about  them  ?  " 

"  0,  how  you  manage ;  how  they  do ;  anything !  " 

"  Well — the  hands  go  to  work  at  six  o'clock,  and 
work  two  hours;  or  not  quite  that,  for  the  bell  rings 
in  time  to  let  them  wash  their  hands  before  break- 
fast; and  for  that  there  are  rooms  provided,  with 
soap  and  towels  and  everything  necessary.  Then 
they  gather  in  the  dining  halls,  where  their  break- 
fast is  ready ;  or  if  any  of  them  prefer  to  bring  their 
own  food,  it  is  cooked  for  them.  There  is  no  com- 
pulsion." 

"  What  do  they  have  for  breakfast  ?  " 

".Coffee  and  tea  and  bread,  and  porridge  with 
milk  or  with  syrup — all  at  certain  fixed  low  rates 
and  all  of  good  quality.  There  are  people  to  cook, 
and  boys  and  girls  to  wait  upon  the  tables.  They 
have  the  time  till  half  past  eight,  but  it  is  not  all 
used  for  eating;  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour  they 
stroll  about  and  talk  together.  At  half  past  eight 


DISCUSSIONS.  677 

comes  the  time  for  prayers.  One  of  the  managers 
conducts  the  service  in  the  chapel;  the  Bible  is 
read,  and  a  hymn  is  sung,  and  there  is  a  short 
prayer.  At  nine  o'clock  all  hands  go  back  to  work." 

"  They  have  had  an  hour's  good  rest,"  said  Ko- 
tha.  "  You  say,  in  the  chapd  ?  have  you  a  chapel 
for  them  ?  " 

"In  the  midst  of  the  mills.  It  is  a  pretty  little 
building — in  old  English  rustic  style;  I  think  it 
very  pretty." 

"  I  dare  say  the  people  enjoy  that,"  said  Eotha. 
"  It  ought  to  be  pretty,  for  them.  I  should  think 
your  hands  would  never  want  to  leave  you,  Mr. 
Southwode." 

"They  never  do.  And  as  I  told  you,  there  is 
never  a  question  of  strikes.  Neither  do  we  ever 
have  a  time  of  bad  business.  The  work  done  is 
so  thorough  and  has  been  so  long  well  known,  that 
we  never  need  to  ask  -for  orders.  We  never  lose 
by  making  bad  debts;  and  we  never  give  notes,  or 
take  them.  I  say  'we' — I  am  using  the  old  for- 
mula— it  is  all  in  my  hand  now." 

"  Why  are  not  other  people  wise  enough  to  make 
such  arrangements  and  have  the  same  sort  of  com- 
fort?" 

"  Men  fail  to  recognize  their  common  humanity 
with  those  under  them.  That  has  been  the  basis 
of  our  management  from  the  beginning.  But  the 
chapel,  and  the  religious  influence,  are  of  later 
date. — I  must  find  a  ring  for  this  finger,  Rotha." 

"  A  ring !  "  exclaimed  the  girl. 


678  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"Yes.  Is  not  that  the  custom  here?  to  make 
people  remember  what  they  have  pledged  them- 
selves to  ? — "  he  said  smiling. 

"  Oh  never  mind  that,  Mr.  South wode !  "  said  Ro- 
tha  hurriedly.  "Go  on  and  tell  me  more  about 
your  mill  people." 

"What  shall  I  tell  you?" 

"About  your  ways, — and  their  ways.  When 'do 
they  have  dinner  ?  " 

"  Between  one  and  two.  They  have  an  hour  for 
it.  A  little  after  half  past  one  they  go  to  work 
again  and  work  till  six;  only  they  have  time  al- 
lowed them  for  tea  and  coffee  at  half  past  four." 

"There  is  no  drinking,  I  suppose?" 

"  Not  even  of  beer.  Half  the  people  do  their 
work  at  their  own  homes;  they  bring  it  in  on  cer- 
tain days,  when  we  give  them  hot  tea  and  coffee 
and  bread  and  cheese,  which  they  have  without 
paying  for  it.  That  saves  them  from  the  tempta- 
tion of  the  public  houses;  and  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  drunkenness  known  in  the  community." 

"  Tea  and  coffee  seem  to  play  a  great  part,"  said 
Rotha. 

"So  they  do.  People  steadily  at  work  in  any 
mechanical  way  need  frequent  refreshment  of 
body,  which  also  in  some  degree  is  refreshment 
of  mind;  and  there,  as  beer  and  whiskey  are  ban- 
ished, tea  and  coffee  come  in  happily.  I  do  not 
know  how  they  would  manage  without  them. — 
Then  in  various  ways  we  minister  to  the  people  and 
care  for  them ;  so  that  we  are  like  one  big  family. 


DISCUSSIONS.  679 

When  any  are  sick,  they  are  paid  at  least  half 
wages  all  the  time;  and  by  clubbing  together  it 
is  generally  made  up  to  full  wages.  We  have  hos- 
pitals, where  they  have  board  and  lodging  and  care 
in  addition  to  half  wages;  but  there  is  no  compul- 
sion about  going  to  the  hospitals.  And  whenever 
any  of  them  are  in  any  sort  of  trouble,  they  come 
to  us  for  counsel  and  sympathy  and  help ;  my  fa- 
ther knew  them  all  personally,  and  so  do  I,  and  so 
did  my  dear  mother  when  she  was  living.  But  a 
mistress  is  wanted  there  now,  Rotha,"  Mr.  South- 
wode  went  on.  "  I  cannot  do  all  I  would  alone, 
nor  half  so  well  what  I  do.  Your  place  is  ready." 

"  0  do  not  speak  so ! "  cried  Eotha  catching  her 
breath.  "  I  wish  I  were  fit  for  it." 

"  Fit  for  it ! "  said  he,  putting  his  hand  under 
her  chin  and  drawing  his  fingers  slowly  along  the 
delicate  outlines,  while  the  blood  mounted  into  her 
cheeks  and  flamed  out  vividly. 

"You  make  me  feel  so  very  small,  telling  me  all 
these  things ! "  she  said.  "  They  are  such  grand 
things  !  And  what  am  I  ?  " 

He  lifted  her  face,  not  without  a  little  resistance 
on  her  part,  till  he  coukl  reach  her  lips,  and  gave 
his  answer  there  first;  gave  it  tenderly,  and  laugh- 
ingly. 

"You  are  mine,"  he  said;  "and  what  is  mine  I 
do  not  like  anybody  to  find  fault  with,  except 
myself." 

"  I  mean  it  seriously,  Mr.  Digby — "  Rotha  made 
effort  to  say. 


680  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"So  do  I.  And  seriously,  I  want  you  there  very 
much.  I  want  your  help  in  the  schools,  and  with 
men,  women  and  children  out  of  the  schools.  It  is 
pleasant  work  too.  They  are  always  glad  to  see 
me ;  and  they  will  be  more  glad  to  see  you." 

"  Never !  "  said  Rotha  energetically.  "  What  is 
the  name  of  the  place  ?  you  never  told  me." 

"  Southwode." 

"  Southwode !     That  is  pretty." 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  so.  I  will  shew  you,  if  I 
can,  a  little  what  the  house  is  like." 

He  had  sketched  the  ground  plan  of  it  before; 
now  he  drew  the  elevation,  giving  some  hints  of 
the  surrounding  trees  and  further  lines  of  the  land- 
scape ;  telling  her  all  sorts  of  quiet  details  about 
this  room  and  that  room,  this  and  that  growth  of 
trees,  or  plantation,  or  shrubbery.  And  Botha 
looked  on  and  listened,  in  a  kind  of  dream  witch- 
ery of  pleasure ;  absorbed,  fascinated,  with  very  ful- 
ness of  content. 

Nevertheless,  her  mind  was  not  settled  on  one 
point,  and  that  a  very  essential  point;  and  after 
the  evening  was  over  and  she  was  alone  in  her 
own  room,  she  thought  about  it  a  great  deal.  She 
could  not  think  regularly;  that  was  impossible; 
she  was  in  too  great  a  confusion  of  emotions ;  hap- 
piness and  wonder  and  strangeness  and  doubt 
made  a  labyrinth;  through  which  Rotha  had  no 
clue  but  a  thread  of  sensitive  impulse ;  a  woman's 
too  frequent  only  leader,  or  misleader.  That  thread 
she  "held  fast  to;  and  made  up  her  mind  that  cer- 


DISCUSSIONS.  681 

tain  words  in  consonance  therewith  should  cer- 
tainly be  spoken  to  Mr.  Digby  in  the  morning. 
It  would  not  be  easy,  nor  pleasant.  No,  not  at  all; 
but  that  made  no  difference.  She  had  taken  to  her 
room  with  her  the  sketch  which  Mr.  Southwode 
had  made  of  his  home;  she  would  keep  that  al- 
ways. It  was  very  lovely  to  Rotha's  eyes.  She 
looked  at  it  fondly,  longingly,  even  with  a  tear  or 
two;  but  all  the  same,  one  thing  she  was  sure  it 
was  right  to  do,  to  say;  and  she  would  do  it, 
though  it  drew  the  heart  out  of  her  body.  She 
thought  about  it  for  a  while,  trying  to  arrange 
how  she  should  do  it ;  but  then  went  to  sleep,  and 
slept  as  if  all  cares  were  gone. 

She  slept  late;  then  dressed  hastily,  nervously, 
thinking  of  her  task.  It  would  be  very  difficult  to 
speak  so  that  her  words  would  have  any  chance  of 
effect;  but  Rotha  set  her  teeth  with  the  resolve 
that  it  should  be  done.  Better  any  pain  or  awk- 
wardness than  a  mistake  now.  Now  or  never  a  mis- 
take must  be  prevented.  She  went  to  the  sitting 
room  with  her  heart  beating.  Mr.  Digby  was  already 
there,  and  the  new,  unwonted  manner  of  his  greeting 
nearly  routed  Rotha's  plan  of  attack.  She'  stood  still 
to  collect  her  forces.  She  was  sure  the  breakfast 
bell  would  ring  in  a  minute,  and  then  the  game 
would  be  up.  Mr.  Southwode  set  a  chair  for  her, 
and  turned  to  gather  together  some  papers  on  the 
table  ;  he  had  been  writing. 

"  What  o'clock  is  it  ? "  Rotha  asked,  to  make  sure 
of  her  own  voice. 


682  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"Almost  breakfast  time,  if  that  is  what  you 
mean.  Are  you  hungry  ?  " 

"  I — do  not  know,"  said  Eotha.     "  Mr.  Digby— 

Mr.  Digby  knew  her  well  enough  and  knew  the 
tone  of  her  voice  well  enough,  to  be  almost  sure  of 
what  sort  of  thing  was  coming.  He  answered  with 
a  matter-of-fact  "What,  Rotha?" 

"  I  want  to  say  something  to  you —  But  her 
breath  came  and  went  hastily.  Then  he  came  and 
put  his  arms  round  her,  and  told  her  to  speak. 

"  It  is  not  easy  to  speak — what  I  want  to  say." 

"  I  am  not  anxious  to  make  it  easy ! " 

"Why  not?"  said  Rotha,  looking  suddenly  up  at 
him,  with  such  innocent,  eager,  questioning  eyes 
that  he  was  much  inclined  to  put  a  sudden  stop  to 
her  communications.  But  she  had  something  on 
her  mind,  and  it  was  better  that  she  should  get  rid 
of  it ;  so  he  restrained  himself. 

"  Go  on,  Rotha.     What  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  can  hardly  talk  to  you  so,  Mr.  Digby.  I  think, 
if  I  were  standing  over  yonder  by  the  window,  with 
all  that  space  between  us,  I  could  manage  it  better." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  put  space  between  us  in  any 
way,  nor  for  any  reason.  What  is  this  all  about?  " 

"  It  is  just  that,  Mr.  Southwode.  I  think — I  am 
afraid — I  think,  perhaps,  you  spoke  hastily  to  me 
yesterday,  and  might  find  out  afterwards  that  it 
was  not  just  the  best  thing — " 

"What?" 

"  1 — for  you,"  said  the  girl  bravely ;  though  her 
cheeks  burned  and  every  nerve  in  her  trembled. 


DISCUSSIONS.  683 

He  could  feel  how  she  was  trembling.  "  I  think — 
maybe, — you  might  find  it  out  after  a  while;  and  I 
would  rather  you  should  find  it  out  at  once.  I  pro- 
pose,"— she  went  on  hurriedly,  forcing  herself  to 
say  all  she  had  meant  to  say; — "I  propose,  that 
we  agree  to  let  things  be  as  if  you  had  not  said  it ; 
let  things  be  as  they  were — for  a  year, — until  next 
summer,  I  mean.  And  then,  if  you  think  it  was 
not  a  mistake,  you  can  tell  me." 

She  had  turned  a  little  pale  now,  and  her  lip 
quivered  slightly.  And  after  a  slight  pause,  which 
Mr.  Southwode  did  not  break,  she  went  on, — 

"  And* in  the  mean  time,  we  will  let  nobody  know 
anything  about  it." 

"  I  shall  tell  Mrs.  Mowbray  the  first  five  minutes 
I  am  in  her  company,"  he  said. 

Kotha  looked  up  again,  but  then  her  eyes  fell, 
and  the  strained  lines  of  brow  and  lips  relaxed, 
and  the  colour  rose. 

"  About  Mrs.  Busby,  you  shall  do  as  you  please. 
You  do  not  know  me  yet,  Rotha — my  little  Rotha ! 
Do  you  think  I  would  say  to  any  woman  what  I 
said  to  you  yesterday,  and  not  know  my  own 
mind?" 

"No—"  Rotha  said  softly.  "But  I  thought  I 
was  so  unfit — I  do  not  know  what  I  thought !  only 
I  knew  I  must  speak  to  you." 

"  You  are  a  brave  girl,"  said  he  tenderly,  "  and 
my  very  darling."  And  he  allowed  himself  the 
kisses  now.  "  Was  that  all,  Rotha?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered. 


684  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  You  have  nothing  else  on  your  mind  ?  " 

"No." 

"Then  come  to  breakfast.  It  is  always  bad  to 
go  to  breakfast  with  anything  on  your  mind.  It  is 
only  on  my  mind  that  it  is  so  long  to  next  June  !  " 

Rotha  however  was  very  willing  it  should  be  so. 
She  wanted  all  these  months,  to  study,  to  work,  to 
think,  to  make  herself  as  ready  as  she  could  be  for 
what  was  before  her. 

The  train  could  not  take  them  until  eleven 
o'clock.  After  breakfast  Rotha  sat  for  a  time 
meditating,  no  longer  on  troublesome  subjects, 
while  Mr.  South  wode  finished  the  letter 'he  had 
begun  earlier.  As  he  began  to  fold  up  his  paper, 
she  came  out  with  a  question. 

"  Mr.  South  wode,  what  do  you  think  I  had  bet- 
ter specially  study  this  winter  ?  " 

He  did  not  smile,  for  if  the  question  was  put  like 
a  child,  the  work  he  knew  would  be  done  like  a 
woman.  He  asked  quietly, 

"What  is  your  object  in  going  to  school  at  all?" 

The  answer  lingered,  till  his  eyes  looked  up  for 
it;  then  Rotha  said,  while  a  lovely  flush  covered 
the  girl's  face, — 

"That  you  may  not  be  ashamed  of  me." 

"That  contingency  never  came  under  my  con- 
sideration," he  said,  commanding  his  gravity. 

"  But  indeed  it  did  under  mine ! " 

"Allow  me  to  ask  a  further  question.  After 
that,  do  you  expect  to  make  it  the  main  business 
of  your  life  to  please  me  ?  " 


DISCUSSIONS.  685 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Rotha,  flushing  deeper  but 
speaking  frankly,  as  her  manner  was.-  "  It  would 
be  nothing  new." 

"  I  should  think  that  would  come  to  be  terribly 
monotonous  !  "  he  said  with  feigned  dryness. 

"On  the  contrary!"  said  Rotha.  "That  is  just 
what  saves  life  from  monotony."  And  then  her 
colour  fairly  flamed  up ;  but  she  would  not  qualify 
her  words. 

"Right  in  principle,"  he  said,  smiling  now,  "but 
wrong  in  application." 

"  How,  Mr.  Digby?"  said  Rotha,  a  little  abashed. 

He  threw  his  letter  on  one  side,  came  and  sat 
down  by  her,  and  putting  his  arm  round  her 
shoulders,  answered  first  by  one  of  those  silent 
answers  which — sometimes — say  so  much  more 
than  anything  spoken. 

"I  should  be  a  sorry  fellow,"  he  said,  "if  I 
did  not  estimate  those  words  at  their  full  value, 
which  to  me  is  beyond  value.  I  know  you  of  old, 
and  how  much  they  mean.  But,  Rotha,  this  is  not 
to  be  the  rule  of  your  life, — nor  of  mine." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  she  asked  shyly. 

"  Because  we  are  both  servants  of  another  Mas- 
ter, whom  we  love  even  better  than  we  love  each 
other." 

Did  they?  Did  she,?  Rotha  leaned  her  head 
upon  her  hand  and  queried.  Was  she  all  right 
there?  Or,  as  her  heart  was  bounding  back  to  the 
allegiance  she  had  so  delighted  to  give  to  Mr.  Dig- 
by,  might  she  be  in  danger  of  putting  that  allegi 


683  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

ance  first?  He  would  not  do  the  like.  No,  -he 
would  never  -make  such  a  mistake ;  but  she  ? — Mr. 
South wode  went  on, 

"That  would  put  life  at  a  lower  figure  than  I 
want  it  to  be,  for  you  or  for  myself.  No,  Christ 
first;  and  his  service,  and  his  honour,  and  his 
pleasure  and  his  will,  first.  After  that,  —  then 
nothing  dearer,  and  nothing  to  which  we  owe 
more,  than  each  of  us  to  the  other." 

As  she  was  silent,  he  asked  gently,  "What  do 
you  say  to  it,  Rotha  ?  " 

"  Of  course  you  are  right.  Only — I  am  afraid  I 
have  not  got  so  far  as  you  have." 

"  You  only  began  the  other  day.  But  we  are  set- 
tling principles.  I  want  this  one  settled  clearly  and 
full}*,  so  that  we  may  regulate  every  footstep  by  it." 

"Every  footstep?"  Rotha  repeated,  looking  up 
lor  a  glance. 

"  You  do  not  understand  that  ?  " 

"No." 

"  It  is  the  rule  of  all  my  footsteps.  I-  want  it  to 
be  the  rule  of  all  yours.  Let  me  ask  you  a  question. 
In  view  of  all  that  Christ  has  done  for  us,  what  do 
we  owe  him  ?  " 

"Why — of  course — all,"  said  Rotha  looking  up. 

"  What  does  '  all '  mean  ?  There  is  nothing  like 
defining  terms." 

"  What  can  *  all '  mean  but  all  ?  " 

"There  is  a  general  impression  among  many 
Christians  that  the  whole  does  not  include  the 
parts." 


DISCUSSIONS.  687 

"  Among  Christians  ?  " 

"  Among  many  who  are  called  so." 

"But  how  do  you  mean ?  " 

"  Do  you  know  there  is  such  a  thing  as  saying 
'yes'  in  general,  and  'no'  in  particular?  What 
in  your  understanding  of  it,  does  '  all '  include  ?  " 

"Everything,  of  course." 

"That  is  my  understanding  of  it.  Then  we  owe 
to  our  Master  all  we  have  ?  " 

"  Yes — "  said  Rotha  with  slight  hesitation.  Mr. 
Southwode  smiled. 

"That  is  certainly  the  Bible  understanding  of 
it.  'For  the  love  of  Christ  constraineth  us;  be- 
cause we  thus  judge,  that  if  one  died  for  all,  then 
were  all  dead ;  arid  that  he  died  for  all,  that  they 
which  live  should  not  henceforth  live  unto  them- 
selves," but  unto  him  which  died  for  them  and  rose 
again.'" 

"But  how  much  is  involved  in  that  'living  to 
him '  ?  " 

"  Let  us  find  out,  if  we  can.  Turn  to  Lev.  xiv. 
and  read  at  the  14th  verse.  These  are  the  direc- 
tions for  the  cleansing  of  a  leper  who  has  been 
healed  of  his  leprosy."  He  gave  her  his  Bible,  and 
she  read. 

" '  And  the  priest  shall  take  some  of  the  blood 
of  the  trespass  offering,  and  the  priest  shall  put 
it  upon  the  tip  of  the  right  ear  of  him  that  is  to 
be  cleansed,  and  upon  the  thumb  of  his  right  hand, 
and  upon  the  great  toe  of  his  right  foot.  And  the 
priest  shall  take  some  of  the  log  of  oil,  and  pour 


688  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

it  into  the  palm  of  his  own  left  hand,  and  shall 
sprinkle  of  the  oil  with  his  finger  seven  times 
before  the  Lord :  and  of  the  rest  of  the  oil  that  is 
in  his  hand  shall  the  priest  put  upon  the  tip  of 
the  right  ear  of  him  that  is  to  be  cleansed,  and 
upon  the  thumb  of  his  right  hand,  and  upon  the 
great  toe  of  his  right  foot,  upon  the  blood  of  the 
trespass  offering.' " 

"  I  do  not  see  the  meaning  of  that,"  said  Eotha. 

"Yet  it  is  very  simple. — Head  and  hand  and 
foot,  the  whole  man  and  every  part  of  him  was 
cleansed  by  the  blood  of  the  sacrifice;  and  where- 
ever  the  redeeming  blood  had  touched,  there  the 
consecrating  oil  must  touch  also.  Head  and  hand 
and  foot,  the  whole  man  was  anointed  holy  to  the 
Lord." 

"  Upon  the  blood  of  the  trespass  offering.  O  I  see 
it  now.  And  how  beautiful  that  is!  and  plain 
enough." 

"Turn  now  to  Kom.  xii.  1." 

" '  I  beseech  you  therefore,  brethren,  by  the 
mercies  of  God,  that  ye  present  your  bodies  a 
living  sacrifice,  holy,  acceptable  to  the  Lord.' " 

"  You  understand  ?  " 

"Partly;  I  think,  only  partly." 

"  The  priests  of  old  offered  whole  rams  and  bul- 
locks upon  the  altar  as  tokens  and  emblems  of  the 
entireness  with  which  the  worshipper  was  given  to 
God;  the  whole  offering  was  consumed  by  fire  and 
went  up  to  heaven  in  smoke  and  fume,  all  except 
the  little  remainder  of  ashes.  We  are  to  be  living 


DISCUSSIONS.  089 

sacrifices,  as  wholly  given,  but  given  in  life,  and 
with  our  whole  living  powers  to  be  used  and  exist 
for  God." 

"  Yes,"  said  Rotha.     "  I  see  it  now." 

"  Are  you  glad  to  see  it  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  am.  It  makes  me  catch  my  breath  a 
little." 

"Why?" 

"  It  must  be  difficult  to  live  so." 

"Not  if  we  love  Christ.  Indeed  if  we  love  him 
much,  it  is  impossible  to  live  any  other  way." 

"  I  understand  so  far,"  Rotha  said  after  a  pause ; 
"  but  I  do  not  quite  know  what  you  are  coming  to." 

"I  am  coming  to  something  serious;  for  I  do 
not  know  whether  in  this  matter  you  will  like 
what  I  like." 

In  Rotha's  eyes  there  flashed  an  innocent  uncon- 
scious response  to  this  speech,  saying  plainly  that 
she  could  like  nothing  else  !  It  was  so  innocent  and 
so  unconscious,  and  withal  so  eloquent  of  the  place 
he  held  with  her,  that  Mr.  Southwode  could  have 
smiled ;  did  smile  to  himself;  but  he  would  not  be 
diverted,  nor  let  her,  from  the  matter  in  hand; 
which,  as  he  said,  was  serious.  He  wished  to  have 
it  decided  on  its  own  merits  too;  and  perceived 
there  would  be  some  difficulty  about  that.  Rotha's 
nature  was  so  passionately  true  to  its  ruling  affec- 
tion that,  as  he  knew,  that  honest  glance  of  her 
eyes  had  told  but  the  simple  truth.  Mr.  Southwode 
looked  grave,  even  while  he  could  willingly  have 
returned  an  answer  in  kind  to  her  eyes'  sweet 


690  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

speech.  But  he  kept  his  gravity  and  his  com- 
posed manner,  and  went  on  with  his  work. 

"  Read  one  more  passage,"  he  said.  "  1  Cor- 
vi.  20." 

"  'Ye  are  bought  with  a  price;  therefore  glorify 
God  in  your  body  and  in  your  spirit,  which  are 
God's.'  That  is  again  just  like  the  words  in  Le- 
viticus," said  Rotha; — "head  and  hand  and  foot  re- 
deemed, and  head  and  hand  and  foot  belonging  to 
the  Redeemer." 

"Exactly,"  said  Mr.  South wode.'  "That  is  not 
difficult  to  recognize.  The  question  is,  will  we 
stand  to  the  bargain  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  It  costs  so  much,  to  let  it  stand." 

"  It  has  not  cost  you  much,"  said  Rotha.  "  I 
should  not  say,  by  your  face,  it  has  cost  you  any- 
thing." 

"  It  has  cost  me  all  I  have." 

"  Well,  in  a  way—" 

"Truly,"  he  said,  meeting  her  eyes.  "I  do  not 
count  anything  I  have  my  own." 

"  But  in  practice — " 

"  In  practice  I  use  it  all,  or  I  try  to  use  it  all,  for 
my  Master;  in  such  way  as  I  think  he  likes  best, 
and  such  as  will  best  do  his  work  and  honour  his 
name." 

"  And  you  do  not  find  that  disagreeable  or  hard," 
said  Rotha.  "That  is  what  I  said." 

"Neither  disagreeable  nor  hard.  On  the  con- 
trary. I  am  sure  there  is  no  way  of  using  oneself 


DISCUSSIONS.  691 

and  one's  possessions  that  gets  so  much  enjoyment 
out  of  them.  No,  not  the  thousandth  part." 

"Then  what  do  you  mean  by  its  'costing  so 
much '  ?  " 

"  Read  1  Cor.  x.  31." 

"  '  Whether  therefore  ye  eat,  or  drink,  or  whatso- 
ever ye  do,  do  all  to  the  glory  of  God.' "  Rotha  read, 
and  this  time  did  not  look  up. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  going  by  that  rule  ?  " 

"  You  mean,  for  Christ's  sake,"  said  Rotha  slowly. 
She  knew  she  was  willing  to  go  by  any  rule  for  her 
lover's  sake.  "  Mr.  Southwode,  I  do  not  think  I 
ever  studied  it  out." 

"  Shall  we  study  it  out  now  ?  " 

"  0  yes,  please  !     But  you  must  help  me." 

"  Let  us  come  to  particulars.  What  sorts  of 
things  that  are  bought  with  money,  for  instance, 
do  you  take  most  pleasure  in  ?  " 

Rotha  looked  up,  curious,  questioning,  wonder- 
ing, pondering,  very  honest. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  most"  she  said.  "  I  take 
so  much  pleasure  in  everything.  Books  especially. 
And  pictures  I  delight  in.  And — do  not  laugh  at 
me,  Mr.  Digby !  I  always  did, — I  take  pleasure  in 
nice,  pretty,  comfortable,  becoming,  dresses  and 
clothes  generally.  So  do  you,  don't  you  ? 

It  went  beyond  Mr.  Southwode's  power  of  grav- 
ity, the  quaint  frankness  of  this  speech;  and  he 
laughed.  Rotha  joined  in  the  laugh  at  herself, 
but  looked  seriously  for  the  answer. 

"  It  is  a  comfort  to  talk  to  you,"  he  said.     "  One 


692  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

can  get  at  the  point.  And  here  we  have  it,  Kotha. 
I  think  your  liking  of  all  the  things  specified  is 
thoroughly  justified  and  perfectly  right;  and  as  you 
suggest,  I  share  it  with  you.  Now  comes  the  ques- 
tion. The  word  says  '  whatsoever ' ;  therefore  it 
covers  books  and  pictures  and  dresses  too.  Take 
then  the  homeliest  instance.  Are  you  willing,  in 
buying  a  gown  or  a  bonnet  or  anything  else,  to  do. 
it  always,  as  well  as  you  know  how,  to  the  glory 
of  God?" 

"  How  can  it  be  done  so  ?  " 

"Think.  If  this  is  your  rule,  you  will  choose 
such  a  bonnet  or  gown  as  you  can  best  do  your 
work — God's  work, — in.  Therefore  it  will  not  be 
chosen  to  give  the  impression  that  you  wish  to  ex- 
cite attention  or  admiration,  or  that  you  wish  to 
impose  by  your  wealth,  or  that  dress  occupies  a 
large  place  in  your  thoughts;  it  will  be  such  as 
suits  a  refined  taste,  such  as  becomes  you  and  sets 
off  your  good  qualities  to  the  very  best  advantage ; 
and  it  will  not  cost  more  than  is  truly  necessary 
for  these  ends,  because  the  Lord  has  more  impor- 
tant work  for  his  money  to  do.  Perhaps  I  rather 
overrate  than  underrate  the  importance  of  good 
dressing;  it  is  an  undoubted  power;  but  really 
good  dressing  is  done  for  Christ,  as  his  servant 
and  steward  equips  herself  for  his  service;  but  she 
uses  no  more  of  the  Lord's  silver  and  gold  than  is 
needful,  because  that  would  be  unfaithfulness  in 
stewardship." 

"  But  that  makes  dressing  a  noble  art ! "  cried 


DISCUSSIONS.  693 

Rotha.  Her  eyes  had  looked  eagerly  into  the 
speaker's  eyes,  taking  in  his  words  with  quick  ap- 
prehension. 

"  Carry  out  the  principle  into  all  other  lines  of 
action,  then;  and  see  what  it  will  make  the  rest  of 
life." 

"'To  the  glory  of  God.'  The  Bible  says,  eating 
and  drinking?" 

"Yes." 

"  Well  how  that,  Mr.  Southwode  ?  " 

"  And  if  eating  and  drinking,  then  the  houses  in 
which  we  assemble,  and  the  tables  at  which  we  sit 
down." 

"  Yes,  but  you  are  going  a  little  faster  than  I 
can  follow,"  said  Rotha.  "  In  the  first  place,  it 
seems  to  me  that  people  in  general  do  not  think  as 
you  do." 

"  I  told  you  so." 

"  Hardly  anybody." 

"  Hardly  anybody !  " 

"Then,  is  it  not  possible — " 

"That  I  am  straining  the  point?  You  have 
read  the  Bible  testimony  yourself;  what  do  you 
think  ?  " 

Rotha  was  silent.  Could  all  the  Christian  world, 
almost  all  of  it,  be  wrong,  and  only  Mr.  Southwode 
right  ?  Was  the  rule  indeed  to  be  drawn  so  close  ? 
She  doubted.  The  Bible  words,  to  be  sure, — but 
then,  why  did  not  others  see  them  too  ? 

"  Read  Rom.  xii.  1,  again." 

Rotha  read  it,  and  looked  up  in  silence.     Mr. 


694  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Southwode's  face  wore  a  slight  smile.  He  did  not 
look,  she  thought,  like  a  man  who  felt  the  poorer 
for  what  he  had  given  up. 

«  Well  ?— "  said  he. 

"  Well.  I  have  read  this  often,"  said  Rotha.  "  I 
know  the  words." 

"  Have  you  obeyed  them  ?  " 

"I — do — not — know.     I  am  afraid,  not." 

"  When  a  man  has  given  his  body  a  living  sac- 
rifice, has  he  anything  left  to  give  beside  ?  " 

"Why  not?" 

"Think.  In  that  case,  his  hands  are  his  Mas- 
ter's. They  cannot  do  anything  inconsistent  with 
his  use  of  them,  or  interrupting  it,  or  hindering  it. 
All  they  do  will  be,  indirectly  or  directly,  for  Him." 

"  Yes — "  said  Rotha.  "  But  nothing  for  himself, 
then?" 

"  Anything,  that  will  fit  him  for  service,  or  help 
him  in  it." 

"But  for  instance.  I  am  very  fond  of  fancy 
work,"  said  Rotha. 

"  Useless  fancy  work  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  you  would  call  it  so." 

"Never  mind  what  I  call  it,"  said  Mr.  South- 
wode,  laughing  a  little ;  for  Rotha's  frankness  and 
directness  were  delightful ; — "  I  am  not  skilled  in 
fancy  work,  and  I  speak  in  ignorance.  What  do 
you  call  it  ?  " 

"  Some  of  it  is  not  of  any  use,"  Rotha  said 
thoughtfully;  "it  is  just  a  putting  together  of 
lovely  colours.  Of  course,  people  must  have  mats 


DISCUSSIONS.  695 

and  rugs  and  cushions  and  things;  and  it  is  pretty 
work  to  make  them;  but  they  could  be  bought 
cheaper,  what  would  do  just  as  well." 

"Then  the  question  rises,  in  view  of  all  these 
pretty  things, — Is  it  the  best  use  I  can  make  of  my 
time  and  my  money  ?  " 

Rotha's  fingers  drummed  upon  the  table. 

"  But  one  must  have  amusement,"  she  said.  "  One 
cannot  be  always  studying." 

"  Quite  true.  The  question  remains,  whether  this 
is  the  best  amusement  to  be  had." 

"  I  give  that  up,"  said  Rotha.  "  I  see  what  you 
think." 

"Never  mind  what  I  think — for  once,"  said  he 
smiling.  "Try  the  question  on  its  own  merits." 

"  I  give  that  up,"  Rotha  repeated.  "  Except  for 
odds  and  ends  of  chances,  it  does  take  a  fearful 
amount  of  time,  and  money  too.  But  go  on,  Mr. 
Digby;  I  am  getting  dreadfully  interested." 

"  You  can  go  on  without  my  help." 

"But  I  want  it.     Please  go  on." 

"  You  can  transfer  to  eyes  and  ears  and  lips  ana 
feet  what  I  have  said  about  hands.  All  would  be  the 
Lord's  servants.  Have  I  anything  else  left  to  give, 
if  I  have  once  given  my  body  a  living  sacrifice  ?  " 

"No.     Nothing.     But  why  did  I  never  see  that 
before?" 
.  "  What  do  you  think  of  it,  now  you  do  see  it  ?  " 

" It  is  grand ! "  said  the  girl  thoughtfully.  "And 
beautiful.  Such  a  life  would  be  woven  all  of  gold- 
en threads.  But  Mr.  Southwode,  it  would  make 


696  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

one  different  from  everybody  else  in  the  whole 
world ! " 

"Did  not  Jesus  say?  'Ye  are  not  of  the  world, 
even  as  I  am  not  of  tJie  world.'  And — 'Therefore 
the  world  hateth  you.'  " 

"  Yes, — "  said  Eotha  slowly — "  I  see." 

"  How  would  you  furnish  a  house,  on  this  prin- 
ciple ? "  Mr.  Southwode  went  on. 

"  A  house  ?  "  Rotha  repeated. 

"  Yes.  Suppose  the  old  house  at  Southwode  was 
to  be  refurnished ;  how  should  we  do  it  ?  I  would 
like  to  have  everything  there  please  you." 

"But  on  your  principle,"  said  Eotha,  colouring 
beautifully,  though  she  laughed,  "you  would  not 
arrange  it  to  please  me  at  all." 

"If  my  principle  were  your  principle? — "  he  said 
with  a  flash  in  his  eye  which  was  part  pleasure  and 
part  amusement. 

"  I  never  considered  the  subject,"  she  said 
shyly. 

"  Well  let  us  consider  it.  What  are  the  points 
to  be  principally  regarded,  in  furnishing  a  house?" 

Rotha  pondered,  a  good  deal  amused;  this  whole 
discussion  was  so  novel  to  her.  "  I  suppose,"  she 
said,  "one  ought  to  aim  at  a  good  appearance — 
according  to  one's  means, — and  the  comfort  of  the 
family  that  are  to  live  in  the  house, — and  pretti- 
nees, — and  pleasantness." 

"  And  the  Lord's  service  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  see  how  that  comes  in." 

"  I  must  state  another  question,  then.    What  are 


DISCUSSIONS.  697 

the  uses  for  whicn  the  house  is  intended  ?  what  is 
to  be  done  in  it,  or  what  ought  to  be  done  ?  " 

"People  are  to  be  made  comfortable  in  it;  they 
must  see  their  friends, — and  do  their  work." 

"  Very  well.     What  work  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.     That  depends,  I  suppose." 

"But-  what  work  is  set  out  in  the  Bible  for  every 
Christian  house  to  do  ?  " 

"Mr.  South wode,  I  do  not  know.  I  do  not  seem 
to  know  much  of  what  is  in  the  Bible,  at  all !  " 

"After  five  months  of  study?"  said  he  kindly. 
"Well,  listen.  The  Bible  bids  us  not  be  forget- 
ful to  entertain  strangers." 

"  Strangers ! " 

"  That  is  the  word." 

"And  of  course  we  are  to  entertain  our  friends?" 

"That  may  safely  be  left  to  people's  natural  af- 
fection. But  our  entertainments  it  bids  us  keep  for 
the  poor  and  the  maimed  and  the  lame  and  the 
blind;  for  people,  in  short,  who  can  make  us  no  re- 
turn in  kind." 

"  Does  it !  " 

"  Christ  said  so  expressly." 

"  I  remember  he  did,"  said  Rotha  thoughtfully. 
"But  then — but  then,  Mr.  Southwode, — in  that 
case,  people  are  all  abroad ! " 

He  was  silent. 

"  But  are  we  not  to  have  society  ?  " 

"Undoubtedly,  if  we  can  get  it." 

"  Then  we  must  entertain  them." 

"  According  to  Christ's  rule." 


698  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  But  then,  especially  if  one  is  rich,  people  will 
say-" 

"T.he  question  with  me  is,  what  the  Master  will 
say." 

"  People  will  not  want  to  come  to  see  you,  will 
they,  on  those  terms  ?  " 

" Those  will  who  care  to  see  us"  said  Mr.  South- 
wode ;  "  and  I  confess  those  are  the  only  ones  I  care 
to  see.  The  people  who  come  merely  for  the  enter- 
tainment can  find  that  as  well  elsewhere." 

"  One  thing  is  certain,"  said  Rotha.  "  A  house 
could  not  be  furnished  to  suit  both  those  styles  of 
guests." 

"  Then  the  Bible  bids  us  bring  the  poor  that  are 
cast  out,  to  our  houses." 

"  But  that  you  cannot !  Not  always,"  said  Ro- 
tha. "They  are  not  fit  for  it." 

"There  is  discretion  to  be  observed,  certainly. 
You  would  not  invite  a  tramp  into  your  drawing 
room.  But  I  have  known  two  instances,  Rotha,  in 
which  a  miserable  and  very  degraded  drunkard  was 
saved  to  himself  and  to  society,  saved  for  time  and 
eternity,  just  in  that  way;  by  being  taken  into  a 
gentleman's  house,  and  cared  for  and  trusted  and 
patiently  borne  with,  until  his  reformation  was  com- 
plete. In  those  cases  the  individuals,  it  is  true,  had 
belonged  to  the  respectable  and  educated  classes 
of  society;  but  at  the  time  they  were  brought  to 
the  gutter." 

"  That  is  not  easy  work ! "  said  Rotha  shaking  her 
head. 


DISCUSSIONS.  699 

"  Not  when  you  think  of  Christ's  '  Inasmuch '  ?  " 

Eotha  was  silent  a  while. 

"  Well ! "  she  said  at  last,  "  I  see  now  that  the 
furnishing  of  a  house  has  more  meaning  in  it  than 
ever  I  thought." 

"You  see,  I  hope  also,"  Mr.  Southwode  said 
gently,  "that  your  conditions  of  comfort  and  pret- 
tiness  and  pleasantness  are  not  excluded  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  not,"  said  Eotha,  thinking  busily. 
"The  house  would  do  its  work  better,  even  its 
work  among  these  people  you  have  been  speaking 
of, — far  better,  for  being  pretty  and  comfortable 
and  pleasant.  I  see  that.  Refinement  is  not  ex- 
cluded, only  luxury." 

"  Say,  only  useless  luxury." 

"  Yes,  I  see  that,"  said  Rotha. 

"  Then  the  Bible  bids  us  use  hospitality  without 
grudging.  That  is,  welcoming  to  the  shelter  and 
comfort  of  our  houses  any  who  at  any  time  may 
need  it.  Tired  people,  homeless  people,  ailing 
people,  poor  people.  So  the  house  and  the  table 
must  be  always  ready  to  receive  and  welcome  new 
guests." 

"  I  see  it  all,  Mr.  Digby,"  said  Rotha,  lifting  her 
eyes  to  him. 

"There  is  no  finery  at  Southwode — I  might  say, 
nothing  fine;  there  are  some  things  valuable.  But 
the  house  seems  to  me  to  want  nothing  that  the 
most  refined  taste  can  desire.  I  think  you  will 
like  it." 

"I  think   I   understand   the  whole   scheme  of 


700  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

life,  as  you  put  it,"  Eotha  went  on,  shyly  get- 
ting away  from  the  personal  to  the  abstract.  "  So 
far  as  things  can  be  done,  things  enjoyed, — -"books 
and  music  and  everything, — by  a  servant  of  Christ 
who  is  always  doing  his  Master's  work;  so  far 
as  they  would  not  hinder  but  help  the  work 
and  him;  so  far  you  would  use  them,  and  there 
stop." 

"  Does  such  a  life  look  to  you  burdened  with 
restrictions  ?  " 

"They  do  not  seem  to  me  really  restrictions,"  Ro- 
tha  answered  slowly.  "  Taking  it  altogether,  such 
a  life  looks  to  me  wide  and  generous  and  rich ;  and 
the  common  way  poor  and  narrow." 

"  How  should  it  be  otherwise,  when  the  one  is 
the  Lord's  way,  and  the  other  man's?  But  people 
who  have  not  tried  do  not  know  that." 

"  Of  course  not." 

"They  will  not  understand."  . 

" I  suppose  they  cannot" 

"And  the  world  generally  does  not  like  what  it 
does  not  understand." 

"  I  should  think  that  could  be  borne." 

"  You  are  not  afraid,  then  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  Rotha.  "  But  I  do  not  mean 
that  I  stand  just  where  you  do,"  she  added  soberly. 
"  With  my  whole  heart  I  think  this  is  right  and 
beautiful,  and  I  am  sure  it  is  happy ;  and  yet, — you 
know,"  she  went  on  colouring  brightly,  "  I  should 
like  anything  because  you  liked  it;  and  that  is 
not  quite  enough.  But  I  will  study  the  matter 


DISCUSSIONS.  701 

thoroughly  now.  I  never  thought  of  it  before 
— not  50." 

There  was  frankness  and  dignity  and  modesty  in 
her  words  and  manner,  enough  to  satisfy  a  difficult 
man ;  and  Mr.  South wode  was  too  much  delighted 
to  even  touch  this  beautiful  delicacy  by  shewing 
her  that  he  liked  it.  He  answered,  with  the  words, 
"  It  is  only  to  follow  Christ  fully";  and  then  there 
was  silence.  By  and  by  however  he  began  to  al- 
low himself  some  expression  of  his  feelings  in  cer- 
tain caresses  to  the  fingers  he  still  held  clasped  in 
his-own. 

"  That  you  should  be  doing  that  to  my  hand  !  " 
said  Eotha.  "  Mr.  Southwode,  what  an  extraordi- 
nary story  it  all  is !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Just  think — -just  think.  All  this,  the  whole  of 
it,  has  really  come  from  my  mother's  shewing  to  a 
stranger  precisely  one  of  those  bits  of  hospitality 
you  have  been  speaking  about.  I  wonder  if  she 
knows  now?  You  remember  how  the  words  run, — 
'  Full  measure,  pressed  doAvn,  heaped  up  and  run- 
ning over,  shall  they  give 

Botha's  eyes  filled  full,  full ;  she  was  near  losing 
her  self-command. 

"  Do  you  forget  there  are  two  sides  to  it  ? " 
said  Mr.  Southwode,  taking  her  in  his  arms  very 
tenderly. 

"  It  has  all  been  on  one  side  !  "  cried  Kotha. 

"Do  you  make  nothing  of  my  part?" 

"Nothing  at  all!"  said  Kotha  between  crying 


702  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

and  laughing.  "You  have  given — given — given, 
— as  you  like  to  do;  you  have  done  nothing  but 
give ! " 

"  It  is  your  turn  now  " — said  he  laughing. 

Eotha  was  silent,  thinking  a  great  deal  more 
than  she  chose  to  put  into  words. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

END  OF  SCHOOL  TERM. 

same  evening,  just  when  Mrs.  Mowbray 
1  was  set  free  from  a  lesson  hour,  and  the  li- 
brary was  left  to  her  sole  occupation,  a  gentleman 
and  lady  were  announced.  The  next  minute  Rotha 
was  in  her  arms.  Whatever  she  felt,  the  girl's  de- 
meanour was  very  quiet;  her  reception,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  little  short  of  ecstatic.  Then  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray  gave  a  gracious,  if  somewhat  distant,  greeting 
to  Rotha's  companion;  and  then  looked,  with  an 
air  of  mystified  expectancy,  to  see  what  was  com- 
ing next. 

"I  have  brought  Miss  Carpenter  back  to  you, 
Mrs.  Mowbray,"  Mr.  Southwode  began. 

"  Where  did  you  find  her  ?  " 

"  I  found  her  at  Tanfield." 

"  Tanfield !  " — Mrs.  Mowbray  looked  more  and 
more  puzzled. 

"  And  now,  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  take  care 
of  her,  till  next  June." 

"  Till  next  June — "  Mrs.  Mowbray  repeated. 

"  The  school  year  ends  then,  does  it  not  ?  " 

"  May  I  ask,  what  is  to  be  done  with  her  after 

next  June  ?  " 
(703) 


704  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  I  will  take  her  into  my  own  care." 

"  What  does  Mrs.  Busby  say  to  that  ?  "  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray  inquired,  still  doubtful  and  mystified. 

"  She  says  nothing,"  said  Kotha.  "  She  has  noth- 
ing to  say.  She  never  had  any  right  to  say  what 
I  should  do,  except  the  right  Mr.  Southwode  gave 
her."  She  felt  a  secret  triumph  in  the  knowledge 
that  now  at  least  Mrs.  Mowbray  would  have  to  ac- 
cept Mr.  Southwode  and  make  the  best  she  could 
of  him. 

"  Have  you  come  from  Mrs.  Busby  now  ?  " 

"No,  madame ;  Mr.  Southwode  brought  me  straight 
here." 

And  then  followed  of  course  the  story  of  the  past 
five  months.  Rotha  gave  it  as  briefly  as  she  could, 
slurring  over  as  much  as  possible  her  aunt's  action 
and  motives,  and  giving  a  bare  skeleton  of  the 
facts.  Mrs.  Mowbray 's  mystified  expression  did 
not  clear  away. 

"Chicago?"  she  said.  "I  do  not  think  Mrs. 
Busby  has  been  to  Chicago.  My  impression  is 
strong,  that  she  has  been  in  or  near  New  York, 
all  summer." 

"So  she  was,  madame." 

Mrs.  Mowbray  considered  things  with  a  grave 
face. 

"  I  have  a  request  to  make,"  Mr.  Southwode  be- 
gan then ;  "  a  request  which  I  hope  Mrs.  Mowbray 
Avill  receive  as  of  purely  business  character,  and  in 
no  wise  occasioned  by  curiosity.  May  I  be  in- 
formed, at  a  convenient  time,  what  has  been  paid 


END  OF  SCHOOL  TERM.  705 

by  Mrs.  Busby  to  this  house,  on  Miss  Carpenter's 
account  ? " 

"Nothing,"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray. 

"No  bills  for  schooling?  or  board?  " 

"  Nothing  at  all.  Antoinette's  bills  I  have  ren- 
dered, and  they  have  been  paid.  I  have  never 
presented  any  bill  for  Miss  Carpenter,  and  none 
has  ever  been  asked  for." 

Kotha  exclaimed,  but  Mr.  Southwode  went 
on 

"  You  will  allow  me  to  ask  for  it  now." 

Mrs.  Mowbray  looked  doubtfully  at  the  speaker. 

"  By  what  right  could  I  put  Mrs.  Busby's  obliga- 
tions upon  you  ?  How  could  I  account  to  her  ?  " 

"Count  them  my  obligations,"  he  said  pleasantly. 
"  I  do  not  wish  Miss  Carpenter  to  leave  any  debts 
behind  her,  when  she  goes  from  her  own  country 
to  mine.  I  will  be  much  obliged,  if  you  will  have 
the  account  made  out  in  my  name  and  sent  to  me." 

Mrs.  Mowbray  bowed  a  grave  acknowledgment. 
"I  had  better  speak  to  Mrs.  Busby  first,"  she  said. 

"As  you  please  about  that,"  said  Mr.  Southwode 
rising. 

"  But  next  June !  "  cried  Mrs.  Mowbray.  "  You 
are  not  going  to  take  her  away  next  June  ?  I 
want  her  for  a  year  longer  at  least.  I  want  her 
for  two  years.  That  is  one  of  the  difficulties  I  have 
to  contend  with;  people  will  not  leave  their  chil- 
dren with  me  long  enough  to  let  me  finish  what  I 
have  begun.  It  would  be  much  better  for  Eotha  to 
stay  with  me  another  year.  Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 


706  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  I  am  afraid  a  discussion  on  that  point  would 
not  turn  out  in  your  favour,  madame,"  he  said. 
"Miss  Carpenter  is  able  to  represent  my  part  in  it; 
I  will  leave  it  to  her." 

And  he  took  leave.  But  when  it  came  to  Rotha's 
turn,  he  sealed  all  his  pretensions  by  quietly  kiss- 
ing her;  it  was  done  deliberately,  not  in  a  hurry; 
and  Eotha  knew  it  was  on  purpose  and  done  rather 
for  her  sake  than  his  own.  And  when  he  was 
gone,  she  stood  still  by  the  table,  flushed  and  proud, 
feeling  that  she  was  claimed  and  owned  now  be- 
fore all  the  world.  There  ensued  a  little  silence, 
during  which  Mrs.  Mowbray  was  somewhat  un- 
easily arranging  some  disarranged  books  and  trifles 
on  the  great  library  table;  and  Rotha  stood  still. 

"My  dear,"  said  the  former  at  last,  "am  I  to  con- 
gratulate you  ?  " 

"There  is  no  occasion,  madame,"  said  Rotha. 

"What  then  did  Mr.  Southwode  mean?"  said 
Mrs.  Mowbray,  stopping  her  work  and  looking  up 
much  displeased. 

"  0  yes, — I  beg  your  pardon, — if  you  mean  that" 
said  Rotha,  while  the  blood  mounted  into  her 
cheeks  again. 

"  Are  you  going  to  marry  Mr.  Southwode  ?  " 

"He  says  so,  madame." 

"  But  what  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  always  say  the  same  that  Mr.  Southwode  says," 
Rotha  replied  demurely,  while  at  the  same  time  she 
was  conscious  of  having  to  bite  in  an  inclination 
to  laugh. 


END  OF  SCHOOL  TERM.  707 

"My  dear,  let  us  understand  one  another.  When 
I  saw  him  two  or  three  days  ago,  he  did  not  even 
know  where  you  were." 

"  No,  ma'am.     He  found  me." 

"Have  you  had  any  communication  with  him 
during  these  years  of  his  absence  ?  " 

"  No,  madame." 

"  Did  you  know,  when  Mr.  Southwode  went  away, 
three  years  ago,  that  he  had  any  such  purpose,  or 
wish?" 

"  He  had  no  such  purpose,  or  wish,  I  am  sure." 

"Then,  my  dear,  how  has  this  come  about?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  madame." 

Kotha  felt  the  movings  within  her  of  a  little  re- 
bellion, a  little  irritation,  and  a  great  nervous  in- 
clination to  laugh;  nevertheless  her  manner  was 
sobriety  itself. 

"  My  dear,  I  seem  to  be  the  only  one  in  the 
world  to  take  care  of  you ;  and  that  is  my  excuse 
for  being  so  impertinent  as  to  ask  these  questions. 
You  will  bear  with  me  ?  I  must  take  care  of  you, 
Rotha!" 

"Thank  you,  dear  Mrs.  Mowbray!  There  can 
be  no  questions  you  might  not  ask  me." 

"  I  am  a  little  troubled  about  you,  my  dear  child. 
This  is  very  sudden." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Rotha  slowly, — "I  suppose 
it  is." 

"  And  I  do  not  like  such  things  to  be  done  hur- 
riedly." 

"No." 


708  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  People  ought  to  have  time  to  know  their  own 
minds." 

"  Yes." 

"My  dear,  is  it  certain  that  Mr.  Southwode 
knows  his  ?" 

"  I  should  not  like  to  ask  him,  madame,"  said 
Kotha,  while  the  corners  of  her  mouth  twitched. 
"He  is  not  that  kind  of  man.  And  there  is  no- 
body else  to  ask  him.  I  am  afraid  we  shall  have 
to  let  it  stand." 

Mrs.  Mowbray  looked  doubtful  and  ill  at  ease. 

"  Mr.  Southwode  is  a  very  rich  man, — "  she  re- 
marked after  a  minute  or  two. 

"What  then,  Mrs.  Mowbray?"  Eotha  asked 
quickly. 

"  And,  my  dear,  you  have  only  known  him  as  a 
little  girl,"  the  lady  went  on,  waiving  the  question. 

"What  of  that,  madame  ?  " 

"You  can  hardly  be  said  to  know  him  at  all." 

"  It  is  too  late  to  speak  of  that  now,"  said  Kotha, 
laying  her  gloves  together  and  taking  off  her  scarf. 
"  But  I  saw  more  as  a  child,  than  most  people  have 
a  chance  to  see  as  grown-up  people." 

"  My  dear,  I  am  concerned  about  your  welfare, 
in  this  most  important  step  of  your  life.  Have 
you  accepted  this  gentleman  out  of  gratitude  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  he  would  want  me,  madame,  on 
those  terms,  if  he  thought  so." 

"  Yes,  he  would,  perhaps,"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray. 
"Men  make  that  mistake  sometimes.  But  you — 
you  must  not  make  a  mistake  now, 'my  dear ! " 


END  OF  SCHOOL  TERM.  709 

As  Rotha  was  silent,  Mrs.  Mowbray  rose  and 
came  to  her  where  she  was  standing  by  the  table, 
and  put  her  arms  fondly  round  the  girl. 

"You  know,"  she  said,  kissing  her  repeatedly,  "I 
love  you,  Rotha.  I  cannot  let  you  run  into  dan- 
ger, if  I  can  help  it;  and  so  I  put  my  hand  in,  per- 
haps unwarrantedly." 

"Never,  dear  Mrs.  Mowbray!  "  said  Rotha  grate- 
fully. "  You  cannot.  You  may  say  anything." 

"You  are  one  of  those  people  with  whom  im- 
pulse is  strong;  and  such  people  often  do  in  a 
minute  what  they  are  sorry  for  all  their  lives." 

"  I  hope  that  tendency  has  been  a  little  sobered 
in  me,"  said  Rotha.  "  Perhaps  not  much." 

"  Well,  won't  you  give  me  a  little  comfort  about 
this  matter  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Mowbray,  still  holding  her 
close  and  looking  at  her.  "  What  are.  you  going 
to  marry  this  man — this  gentleman — for  ?  " 

But  to  answer  this  question,  to  any  but  one  per- 
son, was  foreign  to  all  Rotha's  nature.  She  could 
not  do  it.  The  blood  flashed  to  cheek  and  brow, 
making  its  own  report;  all  that  Rotha  said, 
was, 

"  He  wishes  it,  madame." 

"  And  are  you  to  do  everything  that  Mr.  South- 
wode  wishes  ?  " 

Rotha  said  nothing,  yet  this  time  Mrs.  Mowbray 
got  an  answer.  There  was  a  little  unconscious 
flash  of  the  girl's  eye,  as  for  half  a  second  it  looked 
up,  which  swift  as  it  was,  told  the  whole  story. 
Mrs.  Mowbray  knew  enough  of  human  nature  and 


710  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

of  the  human  countenance,  to  read  all  she  wanted 
to  know  in  that  look.  All  as  far  as  Rotha  was  con- 
cerned, that  is.  And  that  was  the  principal  thing ; 
Mr.  Southwode  ought  to  know  his  own  mind,  and 
was  at  any  rate  at  his  own  risk;  and  furthermore 
it  was  not  Mrs.  Mowbray's  business  to  take  care 
of  him.  And  as  regarded  Rotha,  she  now  saw, 
there  was  nothing  to  be  done. 

"  Then  I  must  lose  you ! "  she  said  with  a  sigh 
and  kissing  Rotha  again.  "  My  dear,  I  want  noth- 
ing but  your  happiness;  but  1  believe  I  am  a  little 
jealous  of  Mr.  Southwode,  that  he  has  got  you  so 
easily." 

Easily !  Well,  Rotha  could  not  explain  that, 
nor  discuss  the  whole  matter  at  all  with  Mrs. 
Mowbray.  She  went  up  to  her  room,  feeling  glad 
this  talk  was  over. 

And  then  things  fell  immediately  into  school 
train.  And  of  all  in  the  house,  there  was  no  such 
diligent  worker  as  Rotha  during  the  months  of 
that  school  term.  She  was  not  only  diligent.  Mrs. 
Mowbray  greatly  admired  the  quiet  dignity  and 
the  delicate  gravity  of  her  manner.  She  was  grave 
with  a  wonderful  sweet  gravity,  compounded  of  a 
happy  consciousness  of  what  had  been  given  her, 
and  a  very  deep  sense  of  what  was  demanded  of 
her.  Her  happiness,  or  rather  the  cause  of  it,  for 
those  months  remained  secret.  Nobody  in  the 
house,  excepting  Mrs.  Mowbray,  knew  anything 
about  it;  and  if  anybody  surmised,  there  was 
nothing  in  Rotha's  quiet,  reserved  demeanour  to 


END  OF  SCHOOL  TERM.  711 

embolden  any  one  to  put  questions.  All  that  An- 
toinette and  Mrs.  Busby  knew  was,  that  Mr.  South- 
wode  had  found  Rotha  and  brought  her  back. 
"Like  his  impudence!"  Antoinette  had  said;  but 
Mrs.  Busby  compressed  her  lips  and  said  nothing. 
Both  of  them  kept  aloof. 

Mr.  South wode  himself  was  little  seen  by  Rotha 
during  those  months.  He  came  sometimes,  as  a 
guardian  might ;  and  there  did  arise  in  the  house 
a  subdued  murmur  of  comment  upon  Rotha's  very 
distinguished-looking  visiter.  Once  or  twice  he 
took  her  out  for  a  drive;  however,  he  during  that 
winter  played  the  part  of  guardian,  not  of  lover, 
before  the  eyes  of  the  world;  as  he  had  said  he 
would.  When  spring  came,  Mr.  Digby  went  home, 
and  was  gone  three  months ;  not  returning  till  just 
before  the  school  term  closed. 

The  story  is  really  done;  but  just  because  one 
gets  fond  of  people  one  has  been  living  with  so 
long,  we  may  take  another  look  or  two  at  them. 

School  was-  over,  and  the  girls  were  gone,  and 
the  teachers  were  scattered;  the  house  seemed 
empty.  Mrs.  Mowbray  found  Rotha  one  day  gath- 
ering her  books  together  and  trifles  out  of  her  desk. 
She  stood  and  looked  at  her,  lovingly  and  longingly. 

"And  now  your  school  days  are  ended!"  she  said, 
with  a  mixed  expression  which  spoke  not  only  of 
regret  but  had  a  slight  touch  of  reproach  in  it. 

"O  no  indeed!"  said  Rotha.  "Mr.  South  wode 
used  always  to  be  teaching  me  something,  and  I 
suppose  he  always  will." 


712  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  I  wish  I  could  have  you  two  years  more !  I 
grudge  you  to  anybody  else  for  those  two  years. 
But  I  suppose  it  is  of  no  use  for  me  to  talk." 

Kotha  went  off  smiling.  It  was  no  use  indeed ! 
And  Mrs.  Mowbray  turned  away  with  a  sigh. 

Down  stairs,  a  few  hours  later,  Mr.  Southwode 
was  sitting  in  the  little  end  room  back  of  the 
library — Mrs.  Mowbray's  special  sanctuary.  He 
was  trying  to  see  what  was  the  matter  with  a 
cuckoo  clock  which  would  not  strike.  The  rooms 
were  all  in  summer  order;  sweet  with  the  fragrance 
of  India  matting,  which  covered  the  floors;  cool 
and  quiet  in  the  strange  stillness  of  the  vacation 
time.  Mrs.  Mowbray  was  a  wonderful  housekeeper ; 
everything  in  her  house  was  kept  in  blameless 
condition  of  purity;  the  place  was  as  fresh  and 
sweet  as  any  place  in  a  large  city  in  the  month  of 
July  could  be.  It  was  July,  and  warm  weather, 
and  the  summer  breeze  blew  in  at  the  windows 
near  which  Mr.  Southwode  was  sitting,  with  a  fit- 
ful, faint  freshness,  pushing  in  the  muslin  curtains 
which  were  half  open.  There  was  the  cool  light 
which  came  through  green  India  jalousies,  but  there 
was  light  enough;  and  everywhere  the  eye  could 
look  there  was  incentive  to  thought  or  suggestion  for 
conversation,  in  works  of  arts,  bits  of  travel,  remi- 
niscences of  distant  friends,  and  tributes  from  for- 
eign realms  of  the  earth.  Books  behind  him,  books 
before  him,  books  on  the  table,  books  on  the  floor, 
books  in  the  corners,  and  books  in  a  great  revolv- 
ing bookstand.  There  was  a  dainty  rug  before  the 


END  OF  SCHOOL  TERM.  713 

fireplace ;  there  were  dainty  easy  chairs  large  and 
small;  there  was  a  lovely  India  screen  before  the 
grate;  and  there  was  not  much  room  left  for  any- 
thing else  when  all  these  things  were  accommo- 
dated. Mr.  South wode  however  was  in  one  of  the 
chairs,  and  a  cuckoo  clock,  as  I  said,  on  his  knees, 
with  which  he  was  busy. 

Then  came  a  light  step  over  the  matting  of  the 
library,  and  Rotha  entered  the  sanctuary.  She 
came  up  behind  his  chair  and  laid  her  two  hands 
on  his  shoulder,  bending  down  so  as  to  speak  to 
him  more  confidentially.  There  came  to  Mr.  South- 
wode  a  quick  recollection  of  the  first  time  Rotha 
had  ever  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  when  her 
mother  was  just  dead ;  and  how  in  her  forlorn  dis- 
tress the  girl  had  laid  her  head  down  too.  He  re- 
membered the  feeling  of  her  thick  locks  of  wavy 
hair  brushing  his  cheek.  Now  the  full  locks  of 
dark  hair  were  bound  up,  yet  not  tightly ;  it  was  a 
soft,  natural,  graceful  style,  which  indeed  was  the 
character  of  all  Rotha's  dressing;  she  had  inde- 
pendence enough  not  to  be  unbecomingly  bound 
oy  fashion.  Mr.  Southwode  knew  exactly  what 
was  hanging  over  his  shoulder,  though  he  did  not 
look  up.  I  may  say,  he  saw  it  as  well  as  if  he 
had. 

li  I  do  not  know  how  to  speak  to  you,"  Rotha 
began  abruptly.  "  You  do  not  like  me  to  call  you 
'Mr.  Southwode.'" 

"No." 

"  But  I  do  not  think  I  know  your  Christian  name." 


714  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"My  name  is  Digby." 

"That  is  your  surname — your  half  surname,  I 
thought." 

"  Yes,  but  I  was  christened  Digby.  That  is  my 
name.  I  took  the  surname  Digby  afterwards  in 
compliance  with  the  terms  of  a  will,  and  legally 
my  name  is  Digby  Digby;  but  I  am  of  course  by 
birth  South wode." 

"  Then  if  I  called  you  '  Digby,'  it  would  sound  as 
if  I  were  simply  dropping  the  'Mr.'  and  calling  you 
by  your  surname ;  and  that  is  very  ugly.  It  does 
not  sound  respectful." 

"  Drop  the  respect." 

"  But  I  cannot ! "  cried  Rotha,  laughing  a  little. 
"I  have  heard  women  speak  so,  and  it  always 
seemed  to  me  very  ungraceful.  Fancy  aunt  Serena 
saying  '  Busby '  to  her  husband !  She  always  says 
so  carefully  'Mr.  Busby' — " 

"  She  is  a  woman  of  too  much  good  taste  to  do 
otherwise." 

"  She  has  a  good  deal,"  said  Rotha,  "  in  many 
ways.  Then  what  will  you  think  of  me,  if  /  do 
'  otherwise '  ?  " 

"  You  are  not  logical  this  afternoon,"  said  Mr. 
South  wode  laughing.  "Am  I  an  equivalent  for 
Mr.  Busby,  in  your  imagination  ?  " 

"  Will  you  make  that  clock  go  ?  " 

"  I  think  so." 

There  was  a  little  pause.  Rotha  did  not  change 
her  position,  and  Mr.  South  wode  went  on  with  his 
clock  work. 


END  OF  SCHOOL  TERM.  715 

"What  shall  I  do  about  aunt  Serena?"  Rotha 
then  began  again,  in  a  low  voice. 

"In  what  respect ? " 

"Must  I  ask  her  to  come  here? — Monday,  I 
mean  ?  " 

"  Do  you  wish  to  have  her  come  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  indeed !  " 

"  Then  I  do  not  see  the  '  must.' " 

"  But  they  are  dying  to  come." 

"Have  they  asked?  If  so,  there  is  no  more  to 
be  said." 

"0  they  have  not  asked  in  so  many  words. 
But  they  have  done  everything  but  ask.  Aunt 
Serena  even  proposed  that  I  should  come  there — 
just  fancy  it !  " 

"  And  be  married  from  her  house  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  I  am  glad  it  did  not  occur  to  you  to  agree  to 
the  proposal." 

"  Agree !— But  what  ought  I  to  do  ?  " 

"State  the  arguments,  for  and  against." 

"  Well ! — I  cannot  help  feeling  that  it  would  not 
be  pleasant  to  have  them." 

"That  is  my  feeling." 

"  But  then,  one  ought  to  forgive  people  ?  " 

"  Forgiveness  is  one  thing,  and  reinstating  in 
forfeited  privileges  is  another.  I  have  forgiven 
Mrs.  Busby,  I  hope;  but  only  her  repentance  could 
restore  her  to  my  respect.  I  have  seen  no  sign  of 
repentance." 

"  That  involves,  and  means,  punishment." 


716  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  Involuntary — and  unavoidable." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  aunt  Serena  !  " 

"So  am  I,"  said  Mr.  Southwode  laughing;  "but 
I  do  not  see  why,  to  save  her  from  being  punished, 
I  should  punish  myself." 

Through  the  rooms  behind  them  now  came  an- 
other step,  and  Mrs.  Mowbray  presently  entered 
the  little  room,  which  was  full  when  the  three  were 
in  it.  She  was  in  a  white  summer  robe,  her  hair 
in  its  simple  coil  at  the  back  of  her  head  shewing 
the  small  head  and  its  fine  setting  to  great  advan- 
tage. Nothing  more  elegant,  more  sweet,  more 
gracious  can  be  imagined,  than  her  whole  pres- 
ence. It  was  not  school  time;  duty  was  riot  lay- 
ing a  heavy  hand  of  pressure  upon  her  heart  and 
brain;  there  was  the  loveliest  expression  of  rest, 
and  good  will,  and  sparkling  sympathy,  and  ready 
service,  in  her  whole  face  and  manner.  She  sat 
down,  and  for  a  while  the  talk  flowed  on  in  gen- 
eral channels,  full  of  interest  and  vitality  however; 
31rs.  Mowbray  had  learned  to  know  Mr.  South- 
wode by  this  time,  and  had  thoroughly  accepted 
him;  in  fact  I  think  she  liked  him  almost  as  well  as 
she  liked  Rotha.  The  talk  went  on  mainly  be- 
tween those  two.  Rotha  herself  was  silent  when 
she  could  be  so.  She  was  grave  and  soft,  full  of  a 
very  fair  dignity;  evidently  her  approaching  mar- 
riage was  a  somewhat  awful  thing  to  her;  and 
though  her  manner  was  simple  and  frank  as  a 
child  in  her  intercourse  with  Mr.  Southwode,  yet 
after  the  fashion  of  her  excitable  nature  the  sensi- 


END  OF  SCHOOL  TERM.  717 

tive  blood  in  her  cheeks  answered  every  allusion 
to  Monday,  or  even  the  mention  of  her  bride- 
groom's name  when  he  was  not  by,  or  the  sound 
of  his  step  when  he  came.  Mrs.  Mowbray  was  de- 
ligiited  with  her;  nothing  could  be  more  sweet 
than  this  delicate  consciousness  which  was  grave 
and  thoughtful  without  ever  descending  to  shyness 
or  hardening  to  reserve.  As  for  Mr.  Southwode, 
he  saw  little  of  it,  Eotha  was  so  exactly  herself 
when  she  was  with  him ;  yet  now  as  the  talk  went 
on  between  him  and  Mrs.  Mowbray  his  eye  wan- 
dered continually  to  the  eyes  which  were  so  down- 
cast, and  the  quiet  withdrawn  figure  which  held 
itself  a  little  more  back  than  usual. 

"  And  what  are  your  movements  ?  "  inquired  Mrs. 
Mowbray  at  length.  "Do  yoif  go  straight  home?" 

"  I  think  we  shall  take  a  roundabout  way  through 
Switzerland  arid  Germany,  and  stay  there-  awhile 
first." 

"You  are  carrying  away  from  me  my  dearest 
pupil,"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray.  "  She  has  never  been 
anything  but  a  blessing  in  my  house,  ever  since 
she  came  into  it.  If  she  is  as  good  to  you  as  she 
has  been  to  me,  you  will  have  nothing  left  to  ask 
for.  But  I  grudge  her  to  you !  " 

"I  find  that  very  pardonable,"  said  Mr.  South- 
wode with  a  smile. 

"  I  was  dreadfully  set  against  you  at  first,"  Mrs. 
Mowbray  went  on,  with  a  manner  between  serious- 
ness and  archness.  "  I  tried  hard  to  make  out  to 
my  satisfaction  that  Eotha  had  accepted  you  only 


718  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

out  of  gratitude — in  which  case  I  should  have 
made  fight;  but  I  found  I  had  no  ground  to  stand 
on." 

Here  Rotha  made  a  diversion.  She  came,  as  Mrs. 
Mowbray  finished  her  speech,  arid  kneeled  down 
on  a  cushion  at  her  feet,  laying  one  hand  in  her 
friend's  hand. 

"Mrs.  Mowbray — this  vacation  we  shall  not  be 
there — but  next  summer,  if  all's  well,  you  will  come 
and  spend  the  whole  time  at  South wode  ?  " 

"  Ah,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray,  "  I  never 
know  a  year  beforehand  what  will  become  of  me ! " 

"But  I  said,  if  all's  well ?" 

"What  Eotha  petitions  for,  I  petition  for  also, 
Mrs.  Mowbray,"  Mr.  South  wode  added ;  "  and  this 
time  with  double  urgency,  for  I  ask  on  her  account 
and  on  mine  too." 

"  You  will  come,"  said  Rotha.  "  And,"  she  went 
on,  laying  her  other  hand  on  Mrs.  Mowbray's 
shoulder, — "And  some  day,  you  know,  you  will 
give  up  schooling ;  and  then — then — Mr.  Southwode 
says,  you  must  come  and  live  the  rest  of  your  days 
with  us.  He  says  the  house  is  big  enough,  and 
you  shall  have  a  separate  establishment  to  yourself, 
if  you  like." 

Mrs.  Mowbray  looked  silently  at  the  eager  face 
so  near  her,  and  her  eyes  gathered  a  little  mois- 
ture, a  tendency  which  probably  she  repelled. 

"  I  expect  to  die  in  harness," — she  said,  while 
the  two  pair  of  eyes  looked  steadily  into  one  another. 

"  In  one  way — but  not  in  school  harness !     Don't 


END  OF  SCHOOL  TERM.  719 

say  anything  about  it;  but  when  you  stop  work — 
this  work — your  home  is  there." 

The  beautiful  lips  trembled  a  little,  but  Mrs. 
Mowbray  would  not  give  way. 

"That  would  be  a  delightful  dream !"  she  said. 
"Thank  you,  my  dear.  When  I  am  tired  out  with 
people  and  things,  I  will  think  of  this  and  be  re- 
freshed. Now  will  you  bring  Mr.  Southwode  in  to 
tea?" 

She  rose  and  swept  on  before  them,  leading  the 
way.  Her  self-command  had  been  successful.  Ko- 
tha  was  less  in  training,  and  several  tears  dropped 
from  her  eyes  as  she  followed  through  the  library. 
She  was  a  little  disappointed,  and  the  girl's  heart 
was  full.  Her  eager  affection  had  not  got  the  an- 
swer it  wanted.  Kotha  did  not  mistake  her  friend's 
manner;  she  did  not  think  Mrs.  Mowbray  was  with- 
out feeling  because  she  would  not  shew  feeling;  nor 
that  her  appeal  had  not  met  a  response  due  and 
full,  because  the  response  was  not  given  in  words. 
She  knew  that  probably  Mrs.  Mowbray  could  not 
trust  herself  to  put  it  in  words.  Nevertheless,  she 
felt  a  little  thrown  back  and  disappointed,  and 
"  Monday  "  was  near ;  and  I  suppose  she  felt  what 
any  girl  feels  at  such  a  time,  the  want  of  a  mother. 
Rotha  had  nobody  but  Mrs.  Mowbray,  and  she  was 
parting  from  her.  Two  or  three  tears  fell  before 
she  could  prevent  it.  And  then  Mr.  Southwode, 
who  had  been  watching  her,  and  could  read  her 
feelings  pretty  well,  stretched  out  his  hand,  took 
one  of  hers  and  drew  it  through  his  arm.  It  was 


720  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

a  little  thing,  but  done,  as  some  people  can  do 
things,  in  a  way  that  quite  took  it  out  of  the  cate- 
gory. There  was  in  it,  somehow,  an  assurance  of 
mutual  confidence,  of  understanding,  and  sympa- 
thy, and  great  tenderness.  He  had  not  looked  at 
her,  nor  spoken,  but  Rotha's  step  grew  lighter  im- 
mediately; and  in  quiet  content  she  followed  Mrs. 
Mowbray  up  stairs  and  down  and  along  passages 
and  through  one  room  after  another.  The  tea 
table  was  not  set  in  the  great  dining  rooms;  they 
too  were  sweet  with  fresh  matting,  and  lay  in  sum- 
mer coolness  and  emptiness,  giving  a  long  dusky 
vista  towards  the  front  windows,  where  the  blinds* 
shaded  the  light  and  muslin  curtains  shielded  from 
the  dust  of  the  streets.  But  in  the  smaller  end 
room  at  the  back  the  great  windows  were  open, 
and  the  sea  breeze  came  in  fitfully,  and  the  colours 
of  the  evening  sky  were  discernible,  and  there  the 
table  was  prepared.  What  a  table!  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray  had  gathered  all  sorts  of  delicacies  together; 
cold  birds,  and  fruit,  and  dainty  India  sweetmeats, 
and  rich  cheese  of  best  English  make,  and  a  cold 
ham ;  together  with  some  very  delicate  warm  tea 
cakes,  which  I  am  afraid  Mr.  Southwode,  being  an 
Englishman,  did  not  appreciate  properly. 

"Do  not  think  this  is  our  usual  and  ordinary 
tea ! "  Eotha  said  laughing.  "  All  this  extreme 
luxury  is  on  your  account." 

"Rotha  and  I  dine  early,  these  summer  days," 
said  Mrs.  Mowbray;  "and  I  did  not  wish  to  starve 
you  when  I  asked  you  to  stay  to  tea.  This  is  not 


END  OF  SCHOOL  TERM.  721 

dinner,  nor  any  meal  that  deserves  a  name — but 
perhaps  you  will  kindly  put  up  with  it,  in  place  of 
dinner." 

"Dinner!"  said  Mr.  Southwode.  "This  looks 
festive ! " 

"  O  we  are  always  festive  in  vacation  time,"  said 
Rotha  joyously.  "  In  other  houses  people  call  in 
numbers  to  help  them  make  merry;  here  we  are 
merry  when  the  people  go  !  " 

They  were  softly  merry  round  that  board.  Ro- 
tha had  got  back  her  gayety,  and  Mrs.  Mowbray 
was  the  most  charming  of  hostesses.  No  one  could 
take  such  care  of  her  guests;  no  one  could  make 
the  time  pass  so  pleasantly;  no  one  had  such  store 
of  things  to  tell  or  to  talk  of,  that  were  worth  the 
while,  and  that  at  the  -same  time  were  not  within 
the  reach  of  most  people ;  no  one  had  a  more  beau- 
tiful skill  to  give  the  conversation  a  turn  that 
might  do  somebody  good,  without  in  the  least  al- 
lowing it  to  droop  in  interest.  To-day  there  was 
no  occasion  for  this  particular  blessed  faculty  to  be 
called  into  exercise;  she  could  let  the  talk  run  as 
it  would;  and  it  ran  delightfully.  In  general  so- 
ciety Mr.  Southwode  was  very  apt  to  play  a  rather 
quiet  part;  keeping  the  ball  going  indeed,  but  do- 
ing it  rather  by  apt  suggestion  and  incentive  ap- 
plied to  other  people;  this  evening  he  came  out 
and  talked,  as  Rotha  was  accustomed  to  hear  him; 
seconding  Mrs.  Mowbray  fully,  and  making,  which 
I  suppose  was  partly  his  purpose,  an  engrossing 
entertainment  for  Rotha. 


722  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

Following  a  little  pause  which  occurred  in  the 
conversation,  Mrs.  Mowbray  broke  out, — 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  Mrs.  Busby  ?  " 

The  question  was  really  addressed  to  Rotha ;  but 
as  Rotha  did  not  immediately  answer,  Mr.  South- 
wode  took  it  up,  and  asked  "  in  what  respect  ?  " 

"  Is  she  to  be  invited  ?  " 

"  I  was  just  talking  to  Mr.  Southwode  about  it," 
said  Rotha.  "  Why  should  she  be  invited  ?  It 
would  be  no  pleasure  to  any  one." 

"  It  would  be  a  pleasure  to  her." 

"  I  do  not  think  it,  Mrs.  Mowbray !  0  yes,  she 
would  like  to  come;  but  pleasure — it  would  be 
pleasure  to  nobody.  I  know  she  wants  to  come." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  and  she  is  your  mother's  sister. 
Always  keep  well  with  your  relations.  Blood  is 
thicker  than  water." 

"I  do  not  think  so!"  cried  Rotha.  "I  do  not 
feel  it  so.  If  she  were  not  my  mother's  sister,  I 
would  not  care;  she  would  be  nothing  to  me,  one 
way  or  another;  it  is  because  she  is  my  mother's  sis- 
ter that  she  is  so  exceedingly  disagreeable.  If  peo- 
ple who  are  your  relations  are  disagreeable,  it  is 
infinitely  worse  than  if  they  were  not  relations. 
It  is  the  relationship  that  puts  them  at  such  an 
iinapproachable  distance.  You  are  near  to  me, 
Mrs.  Mowbray,  and  my  aunt  Serena  is  a  thousand 
miles  away." 

"It  is  best  the  world  should  not  know  that, 
my  dear.  Do  you  not  agree  with  me,  Mr.  South- 
wode?" 


END  OF  SCHOOL  TERM.  723 

"Better  still,  that  there  should  be  nothing  to 
know,"  he  answered  somewhat  evasively. 

' '  Yes !  "  said  Kotha ;  "  and  if  I  could  have  been 
good  and  gentle  and  sweet  when  I  first  went  to  her, 
things  might  have  been  different;  but  I  was  not. 
I  suppose  I  was  provoking." 

"  Cannot  you  make  up  the  breach  now  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  the  wish,  Mrs.  Mowbray.  I  see  no 
change  in  aunt  Serena ;  and  unless  she  could  change, 
I  can  only  wish  she  were  not  my  mother's  sister. 
I  have  forgiven  her ;  O  I  have  forgiven  her ! — but 
love  and  kinship  are  another  thing." 

"  My  dear,  it  would  not  hurt  you,  much,  to  let 
her  come.  I  know  she  would  feel  it  a  gratification." 

"  I  know  that  well  enough." 

"Always  gratify  people  when  you  can  inno- 
cently." 

"  How  far  ? "  said  Eotha,  laughing  now  in  the 
midst  of  a  little  vexation.  "  I  know  they  are  just 
aching  for  an  invitation  to  Southwode.  There  has 
been  enough  said  to  let  me  see  that." 

"That  must  be  as  your  husband  pleases." 

"  That  must  be  as  my  wife  pleases,"  said  Mr. 
Southwode  with  a  smile. 

Poor  Kotha  passed  both  hands  hastily  over  her 
face,  as  if  she  would  wipe  away  the  heat  and  the 
colou.r;  then  letting  them  fall,  turned  her  face  full 
to  the  last  speaker. 

"  Mr.  Southwode,  you  do  not  want  to  see  them 
there ! " 

"  Miss  Rotha,  I  do  not     But — if  you  do,  I  do." 


724  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

"  That  throws  all  the  responsibility  upon  me." 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray,  "that  is  what 
men  always  like  to  do — get  rid  of  responsibility — 
if  they  can  find  somebody  else  to  put  it  on." 

"Ever  since  Adam's  day — "  Mr.  South wode 
added. 

"Is  there  any  possible  reason  why  aunt  Serena, 
and  Mr.  Busby  and  Antoinette,  should  be  asked  to 
come  to  Southwode?  If  there  is  any  reason  for 
it,  I  have  no  more  to  say;  but  I  do  not  see  the 
reason." 

"She  is  your  mother's  sister — "  Mrs.  Mowbray 
repeated. 

"  And  that  fact  it  is,  which  puts  her  so  far  from 
me.  Just  that  fact." 

"Maybe  it  will  do  her  good,"  suggested  Mrs. 
Mowbray. 

Rotha  laughed  a  short,  impatient  laugh.  "  How 
should  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

"You  never  can  tell  how.  My  dear,  it  is  not 
good  to  have  breaches  in  families.  Always  heal 
them  up,  if  you  can." 

Rotha  turned  in  despair  to  Mr.  Southwode. 

"Mrs.  Mowbray  is  right,  in  principle,"  he  said. 
"  I  entirely  agree  with  her.  The  only  question  is, 
whether  a  breach  which  remains  a  breach  by  the 
will  of  the  offending  party  alone,  ought  to  be  cov- 
ered over  and  condoned  by  the  action  of  the  injured 
party." 

"  You  must  forgive, — "  said  Mrs.  Mowbray. 

"  Yes ;  and  forgiveness  implies  a  readiness  to  have 


END  OF  SCHOOL  TERM. 

the  breach  bridged  over  and  forgotten.  I  think  it 
does  not  command  or  advise  that  the  offender  be 
treated  as  if  he  had  repented,  so  long  as  he  does 
not  repent." 

"  1  have  no  doubt  Mrs.  Busby  repents,"  said  Mrs. 
Mowbray. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  she  is  sorry." 

" I  know  she  is,"  said  Rotha;  "but  she  would  do 
it  again  to-morrow." 

"  What  has  she  done,  after  all  ?  My  dear,  human 
nature  is  weak." 

"I  know  it  is,"  said  Eotha  eagerly;  "and  if  I 
thought  it  would  do  her  the  least  bit  of  good,  as 
far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  would  be  quite  willing  to 
ask  her  to  South  wode.  I  do  not  at  all  wish  to  give 
her  what  I  think  she  deserves." 

"I  am  afraid  I  do,"  said  Mr.  South  wode;  "and 
that  is  a  disposition  not  to  be  indulged.  Let  us 
give  her  the  chance  of  possible  good,  and  ask  her, 
Rotha." 

"  Then  I  must  ask  her  here  Monday." 

"  I  suppose  I  can  stand  that." 

There  was  a  little  pause. 

"  Well,"  said  Rotha,  "  if  you  think  it  is  better,  I 
do  not  care.  It  will  be  a  punishment  to  her, — but 
perhaps  it  would  be  a  worse  punishment  to  stay 
away." 

"Now,"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray,  "there  is  another 
thing.  Don't  you  think  Rotha  ought  to  wear  a 
veil?" 

Mrs.   Mowbray  was  getting  mischievous.     Her 


726  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

sweet  blue  eyes  looked  up  at  Mr.  Southwode  with 
a  sparkle  in  them. 

"  Why  should  I  wear  a  veil  ?  "  said  Eotha. 

"It  is  the  custom." 

"  But  I  do  not  care  in  the  least  for  custom.  It's 
a  nonsensical  custom,  too." 

"  Brides  are  supposed  to  want  a  shield  between 
them  and  the  world,"  Mrs.  Mowbray  went  on.  She 
loved  to  tease,  yet  she  never  teased  Rotha;  one 
reason  for  which,  no  doubt,  was  that  Rotha  never 
could  be  teased.  She  could  laugh  at  the  fun  of  a 
suggestion,  without  at  all  making  it  a  personal 
matter.  But  now  her  cheeks  shewed  her  not  quite 
unconcerned. 

"  The  world  will  not  be  here,"  she  replied.  "  I 
understand,  in  a  great  crowd  it  might  be  pleasant, 
and  as  part  of  a  pageant  it  is  pretty;  but  here 
there  will  be  no  crowd  and  no  pageant;  and  I  do 
not  see  why  there  should  be  a  veil" 

"  It  is  becoming — "  suggested  Mra  Mowbray. 

"But  one  cannot  continue  to  wear  a  veil;  and 
why  should  one  try  to  look  preternaturally  well 
just  for  five  minutes  ?  " 

"  They  are  five*  minutes  to  be  remembered,"  said 
Mrs.  Mowbray,  while  both  Rotha's  hearers  were 
amused. 

"  I  would  rather  they  should  be  remembered  to 
my  advantage  than  to  my  disadvantage,"  the  lat- 
ter persisted.  "It  would  be  pitiful,  to  set  up  a 
standard  which  in  all  my  life  after  I  never  could 
reach  again." 


END  OF  SCHOOL  TERM.  727 

"It  is  a  very  old  institution" — Mrs.  Mowbray 
went  on,  while  the  mischief  in  her  eyes  increased 
and  her  lips  began  to  wreathe  in  lines  of  loveliest 
archness;  Eotha's  cheeks  the  while  growing  more 
and  more  high-coloured.  "Kebecca,  you  know, 
when  she  saw  her  husband  from  a  distance,  got 
down  respectfully  from  her  camel  and  put  on  her 
veil." 

"That  was  after  her  marriage,"  said  Eotha. 
"That  was  not  at  the  wedding  ceremony." 

"  I  fancy  there  was  nothing  that  we  could  call 
a  wedding  ceremony,"  Mr.  Southwode  remarked. 
"  Perhaps  we  may  say  she  was  married  by  proxy, 
when  her  family  sent  her  away  with  blessings  and 
good  wishes.  Her  putting  on  her  veil  at  the  sight 
of  Isaac  shewed  that  she  recognized  him  for  her 
husband." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray;  "it  was  the  old 
sign  of  the  woman's  being  under  subjection." 

"And  under  protection — "added  Mr.  Southwode. 

"But  it  does  not  mean  anything  now"  Rotha 
said  quickly.  Mrs.  Mowbray  laughed,  and  Mr. 
Southwode  could  not  prevent  a  smile,  at  the  naive 
energy  of  her  utterance. 

"  You  need  not  think  I  am  afraid  of  it,"  Rotha 
said,  facing  them  bravely.  "  When  I  was  only  a 
little  girl,  and  very  wayward,  I  never  wanted  to 
do  anything  that  would  displease  Mr.  Digby.  It 
is  not  likely  I  should  begin  now." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray,  with  every  fea- 
ture in  a  quiver  of  mischief, — "  do  you  think  you 


728          "  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

have  given  over  being  wayward  ?  "  And  Rotha's 
earnest  gravity  broke  into  laughter. 

"  1  think  after  all,"  said  Mr.  Southwode  de- 
murely, "all  that  old  meekness  was  because  in 
your  conscience  you  thought  I  was  right." 

"  N — o,"  said  Rotha  slowly,  looking  at  him, — "  I 
do  not  think  it  was." 

"And  you  would  fight  me  now,  if  I  tried  to 
make  you  do  something  you  thought  was  wrong." 

"  Would  I  ?  "  Rotha  said.  But  her  eyes'  swift 
glance  said  more,  which  he  alone  got  the  benefit 
of;  an  innocent  glance  of  such  trust  and  love  and 
such  utter  scorn  of  the  suggested  possibility,  that 
Mr.  Southwode  did  not  for  a  minute  or  two  know 
very  well  what  he  or  anybody  else  was  doing. 

"  We  have  wandered  away  from  the  question," 
said  Mrs.  Mowbray. 

"  What  is  the  question  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Why,  the  veil !  I  believe  in  the  value  of  sym- 
bols, for  keeping  up  the  ideas  of  the  things  symbol- 
ized. Don't  you  ?  " 

"  Unquestionably." 

"Well — don't  you  propose,  Mr.  Southwode,  to 
maintain  the  Biblical  idea  of  subjection  in  your 
family?" 

"  As  well  without  the  veil  as  with  it." 

"  I  see !  "  said  Mrs.  Mowbray.  "  I  shall  have  to 
succumb ;  and  Rotha  will  have  her  own  way.  But 
I  did  want  to  see  her  in  a  veil.  We  have  had 
a  great  deal  of  trouble  over  that  dress,  Rotha 
and  I!" 


END  OF  SCHOOL  TERM.  729 

To  Rotha' s  relief  however,  Mr.  Southwode  did 
not  ask  why  or  how,  but  let  the  conversation  drift 
on  to  other  subjects. 

As  they  were  returning  through  the  long  course 
of  rooms  and  passages  to  the  library,  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray  as  before  leading  the  way;  in  one  of  the  lower 
rooms,  dimly  lighted,  Rotha's  steps  lingered.  She 
came  close  to  her  companion's  side  and  spoke  in  a 
lowered  tone,  timidly. 

"Digby — will  you  ask  aunt  Serena  to  come  to 
Southwode  ?  " 

"No,  my  darling,"  said  he,  drawing  her  up  to 
him ;— "  I  will  not." 

"Then— I?" 

"You,  and  no  other.  And  without  my  name 
coming  in  at  all." 

"  It  will  not  hold  for  half  a.s  much." 

"It  must.  You  are  the  mistress  of  the  house. 
And  besides, — it  may  be  very  well  that  you,  who 
have  been  injured,  should  shew  your  forgiveness; 
but  I  am  under  no  such  necessity." 

"  You,  who  have  not  been  injured,  do  not  forgive 
her  ?  "  said  Rotha,  laughing  a  little. 

"Yes,  I  forgive  her;  but  I  do  not  propose  to  re- 
ward her." 

"You  like  me  to  do  it?" 

"  I  like  you  to  do  it." 

They  stood  still  a  moment. 

"Digby,"  said  Rotha  again,  with  a  breath  of 
anxiety,  "do  you  care  how  I  am  dressed  Monday?" 

"Do  I?— Yea" 


730  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

He  had  both  arms  round  her  now,  and  was  look- 
ing down  into  her  changing  face. 

"  You  do  not  think  it  need  be  costly,  do  you  ? 
Mrs.  Mowbray  has  a  notion  that  it  ought  to  be 
rich." 

"  Will  you  let  me  choose  it  ?  " 

Rotha  hesitated,   looked  down  and  looked  up. 

"  It  is  all  yours — "  she  said,  somewhat  vaguely, 
but  he  understood  her.  "  Only,  remember  that  I 
am  a  poor  girl,  and  it  ought  not  to  be  costly." 

"  Mrs.  Digby  Southwode  will  not  be  a  poor  girl," 
he  said,  with  caresses  which  shewed  Rotha  how 
sweet  the  words  were  to  him. 

"  But  you  know  our  principle,"  said  Rotha.  "  I 
had  a  mind  to  wear  just  my  travelling  dress ;  but 
Mrs.  Mowbray  said  you  would  not  like  that,  and 
I  must  be  in  white."  - 

"  I  think  I  would  like  you  to  be  in  white,"  he 
said. 


And  everybody  declared  that  was  a  pretty  wed- 
ding; the  prettiest,  some  said,  that  ever  was  seen. 
There  were  not  many  indeed  to  say  anything  about 
it;  the  Busbys  were  there,  and  one.  or  two  of  Ro- 
tha's  school  friends,  and  one  or  two  of  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray's  family,  and  two  or  three  of  the  teach- 
ers, who  thought  a  great  deal  of  Rotha.  These 
were  gathered  in  the  library,  with  the  clergyman 
who  was  to  officiate.  Then,  entering  the  library 


END  OF  SCHOOL  TERM.  731 

from  the  drawing  room,  came  Eotha,  on  Mr.  South- 
wode's  arm.  She  was  in  white  to  be  sure,  with 
soft-flowing  draperies;  there  was  not  a  hard  line 
or  a  harsh  outline  about  her.  The  sleeves  of  her 
robe  opened  and  fell  away  at  the  elbow,  and  the 
arms  beneath  were  half  covered  with  the  white 
gloves.  Or  rather,  one  of  them ;  for  only  one  glove 
was  on.  The  other  was  carried  in  the  left  hand 
which  Rotha  had  providently  left  bare.  Her  young- 
friends  were  a  little  shocked  at  such  irregularity, 
and  even  Mrs.  Mowbray  was  annoyed ;  but  Rotha 
came  in  too  quietly,  calmly,  gracefully,  not  to 
check  every  feeling  but  one  of  contented  admira- 
tion. Her  cheek  was  not  pale,  and  her  voice  did 
not  falter,  and  her  hand  did  not  tremble ;  nor  was 
there  apparently  any  feeling  of  self-consciousness 
whatever  to  trouble  the  beautiful  dignified  calm. 
It  was  the  calm  of  intensity  however,  not  of  apa- 
thy; and  one  or  two  persons  noticed  afterwards 
that  Rotha  was  trembling. 

When  congratulations  had  been  spoken  and  Ro- 
tha went  to  get  ready  for  travelling,  the  little  com- 
pany thinned  off.  Her  young  friends  went  to  help 
her;  then  Mrs.  Mowbray  too  slipped  away;  then 
Mr.  Southwode  disappeared ;  and  the  rest  collected 
at  the  front  windows  to  see  Rotha  go.  After  which 
final  satisfaction  Mrs.  Busby  and  her  daughter 
walked  home  silently. 

"Mamma,"  said  Antoinette  when  they  were  alone 
at  home,  "didn't  you  think  Rotha  would  have  a 
handsomer  wedding  dress?  I  thought  she  would 


732  THE  LETTER  OF  CREDIT. 

have  white  silk  at  least,  or  satin ;  and  she  had  only 
a  white  muslin ! " 

"  India  muslin — "  said  Mrs.  Busby  rather  grim. 

"  Well,  India  muslin ;  and  there  was  a  little  em- 
broidered vine  all  round  the  bottom  of  it;  but 
what's  India  muslin  ?  " 

"  It  looks  well  on  a  good  figure,"  said  Mrs.  Busby. 

"I  suppose  Rotha  has  what  you  would  call  a 
good  figure.  But  no  lace,  mamma !  and  no  veil ! " 

"There  was  lace  on  her  sleeves — and  handsome." 

"  O  but  nothing  remarkable.  And  no  veil, 
mamma  ?  " 

**  Wanted  to  shew  her  hair — "  said  Mrs.  Busby. 
It  had  been  a  sour  morning's  work  for  the  poor 
woman. 

"And  not  a  flower;  not  a  bouquet;  not  a  bit  of 
ornament  of  any  kind ! "  Antoinette  went  on. 
"What  is  the  use  of  being  married  so?  And  I 
know  if  /  was  going  to  be  married,  I  would  have 
a  better  travelling  bonnet  Just  a  common  little 
straw,  with  a  ribband  round  it!  Ridiculous." 

"  Men  are  very  apt  to  like  that  kind  of  thing," 
said  her  mother. 

"  Are  they  ?  Why  are  they.  And  if  they  are, 
why  don't  we  wear  them  ?  Mamma ! — isn't  it  ri- 
diculous to  see  how  taken  up  Mr.  Southwode  is 
with  Rotha?" 

"I  did  not  observe  that  he  was  so  specially 
*  taken  up/  "  Mrs.  Busby  said. 

"  O  but  he  had  really  no  eyes  for  anybody  else ; 
and  he  and  I  used  to  be  good  friends  once.  Of 


END  OF  SCHOOL  TERM.  733 

course,  Mr.  Southwode  is  never  empresse — but  I 
saw  that  she  could  not  move  without  his  knowing 
it;  and  if  a  chair  was  half  a  mile  off  he  would  put 
it  out  of  her  way.  Mamma — I  think  I  should  like 
to  be  married." 

"  Don't  be  silly,  Antoinette !  Your  turn  will 
come." 

"  "Will  it  ?  But  mamma,  I  want  somebody  every 
bit  as  good  as  Mr.  Southwode." 

Silence. 

"Mamma,"  Antoinette  bega*n  again,  "did  he  ask 
you  to  come  to  Southwode  ?  " 

"No."     Short. 

"Only  Botha?" 

Mrs.  Busby  made  no  reply.     Another  pause. 

"  Mamma,  you  said  you  could  manage  Mr.  South- 
wode ; — and  you  didnXdo  it ! " 


AA      000201383    7 


